Storm Clouds
by claire.elizabeth2
Summary: The story of Charlotte Gray, and her life after being thrust into the streets of paris on the brink of revolution. After deciding to help a group of students, she becomes a part of something larger, and finds friendship, love, and the fulfillment of a life better than the one she left behind.
1. Chapter 1

Charlotte Gray had a mouth that got her into trouble. She mused on it from a café in Paris – a little thing she had found with a few tables and a Parisian that spouted poetry in a corner. It sat across from her apartment, and while she ate a light breakfast brought by the _garçon de café_, Charlotte thought about how her sharp tongue had landed her in Paris.

She was born in Britain, in the country outside of London, to parents with no other children save herself. As a child, her parents left her to the maids and tutors, so she mostly kept to herself as she grew. She would sit on the lap of one servant or another and have her long chocolate hair brushed and tied back with a ribbon – blue to match her large eyes. Charlotte chose books, in the place of other children her age, to keep her company. History and Romance, sweeping epics. She could read quite well by a young age, and her mind grew sharp. Soon it was not difficult for the girl to maintain lengthy debates with her tutors about politics or society. The tutors were thrilled for the challenge present in Charlotte's intelligent blue eyes.

Charlotte eventually reached an age, however, when it was appropriate to continue her studies at a convent, one located in the North of France. At 13 she left her home, gangly and awkward but keen enough to see the plainness of her features. Charlotte learned a great deal from the nuns: a strong sense of devotion and a dedicated faith combined with untold intellectualism to firmly shape the girls mind in willful independence yet strong compassion. She enjoyed her time at the abbey, and experienced adolescence in the presence of God.

After 5 years, she returned to her parents in Britain. Her mother and Father were stunned to see the complete transformation that a few years of awkward growth and blossoming sexuality had given to their daughter. She stool tall and dignified, and her lanky frame had filled out with softer curves. Her heart shaped face held large blue eyes that were fringed with dark lashes, and her dark hair curled in a style adopted from French fashions. While she was unquestionably beautiful, she still walked with a boyish grace and spoke with a sharp wit and cunning smile that betrayed her intelligence.

"Welcome home" her parents had said, pleased with her state of return.

She spent an agonizingly dull year at home. Her time was spent sewing, helping her mother with errands, and writing in a small notebook kept on a nightstand. She had picked up the last skill at the convent, and continued at home as was her habit and passion. Charlotte could dream of having articles or stories published that told the truth about life, about society, about nature. She wanted to join the ranks of Voltaire, Swift, or Austen. She wanted a career.

Charlotte knew, at 18, that her parents wanted her to marry. She entertained the thought at times, but typically dismissed it. She felt no love for any particular man, so she should not marry any of them, at least not yet. Her parents' money and her beauty had its appeal for men, so Charlotte was confident that, should the need arise, she could find herself wed with relative ease. This though comforted her, so she continued to keep to her writing.

She curled up in an armchair one afternoon to begin a piece on politics in various countries when her father returned from work. He saw her and sighed.

"Dear, what are you doing?" he had queried.

"I'm writing, Father. With ink. On parchment," she replied distractedly.

"Writing," he questioned, "writing about what?"

Charlotte looked up from her little book.

"I'm writing, Father," her eyes shown and a little smile appeared, "about politics. About the governing of colonies, and our defeat in America, and 1789 and the revolution in France. It is sure to be quite lengthy, but I wish to include as much information as possible," she finished excitedly.

"Charlotte, please," her father had begun, " why must you waste your time with such trivialities as writing. A young woman like you should be thinking about getting married, having children, and raising a family."

"But Father," Charlotte had continued, "imagine the possibilities! I could go to University and learn from real professors and begin a car-"

"University?" her father had interrupted, cutting her off. "You are not going to University," he said hotly.

"And why not?" Charlotte had said indignantly.

"Because women don't go to University," his voice rose in pitch. "you _will_ get married Charlotte. Your mother and I are making plans." He struggled to remain calm.

"A plan? What am I, livestock? Sold to the highest bidder?" she shouted back, offended.

"I will not discuss this with you now, Charlotte, and lower your voice." It was clear from his tone that the conversation was over. But Charlotte was never one to let someone else have the final word.

"I will not lower my voice, Father. You treat me as if I am a child. My desire is to go to University and become a writer. You cannot make me marry against my wishes, for I refuse it!" she shouted with passion and anger.

Suddenly, her father struck her across the cheek, a sharp _crack_ echoing in the room. Charlotte cried out and stumbled to her knees.

"You _will_ be quiet. You _will_ stop this incessant writing, and you _will_ marry. Within the year." His voice was quiet, but cold and calculated. "And you will never so much as step foot in a University. _Ever_."

Charlotte nursed her cheek and watched from the floor as her father stormed out, allowing the door to slam behind him.

A servant rushed to Charlotte's side with a cold cloth to place on her cheek, having witnessed the exchange.

"Thank you, Mary," Charlotte murmured.

"Miss Charlotte, let me help you up," the girl said.

When Charlotte's eyes lifted, they were dark and the blue looked like storm clouds at sea.

"Mary, if you please, help me to my room. I will need help packing for a lengthy trip," Charlotte commanded.

"Packing? Bu-but your father said-" Mary stumbled over her words.

"I wasn't lying when I said my father couldn't make me marry," Charlotte said.

"So you're leaving?" Mary questioned, confused.

"I intend to, yes. Within the hour. Now come, matters must be dealt with," Charlotte said matter-of-factly, the anger still plain on her face; She took off for her room.

"Please, Miss Charlotte, do not be rash." Marry struggled to convey her sense of panic. "Why must one argument cause you to – to leave?!" She followed after her mistress.

"Because, Mary," the pair had been walking into Charlotte's room, but Charlotte stopped abruptly to turn back towards the girl. "It is not the argument that spurs my desire to flee, but its immediate consequences. Do you know my father to be a man who breaks his word?" Charlotte demanded.

"N-no," Mary said with an apprehensive face.

"Neither do I." Charlotte turned and continued walking, reaching for a valise in a closet. "He will carry out any plan he has forming. Under his care, I shall be married off to man twice my age with a hefty fortune. _Within the year_, apparently," she mocked her father's voice. "But that can't happen if I am not here. Gather my chemise and extra corset, and stop looking so scandalized." Charlotte turned away again to gather dresses and lengths of fabric into her arms.

Some time later the two had packed adequate clothing for Charlotte's journey, and Charlotte sent Mary to call on the carriage. When the girl had left, Charlotte quickly gathered parchment and ink and hastily wrote a note to her parents, informing them of her decision to leave. She gave no destination, but mentioned that she would consider sending them an address once she found herself settled. She left the note with another servant to ensure its proper delivery, and took what little money she had personally stored in her room. As a last minute decision, she grabbed several jeweled necklaces from her jewelry box, storing them in a leather purse along with the coins. Tying a hat around her chin, she left without a look back.

The carriage ride took her to the docks. She quickly pawned off the expensive jewelry for a hefty sum, enough to purchase a passage across the English Channel and get her into France. She would have enough money for living expenses and rent for a few months, should she find an adequate apartment. On the boat she looked back at the pleasant life she was leaving behind.

'Not leaving, escaping,' Charlotte had thought to herself. 'Escaping.'

Upon arriving in France, Charlotte made her way to the convent of her youth, and the nuns were happy to receive her. Although they did not approve of her situation nor her decisions, they agreed not to betray her location.

She stayed at the convent, near the coast, for several weeks, earning her keep by doing chores and helping at the abbey like the other, certainly more traditional, nuns. She knew, however, that she would need a more permanent home and a stable income should she decide to keep up her lifestyle away from home. Thus, she purchased a passage to Paris where she hoped to find the life of which she dreamed.

Before she left the abbey, she kissed the Abbess on each cheek, and sent a letter to her parents informing them of her safety. Charlotte never knew if her mother and father tried to send a reply to the convent that no longer held their daughter.

By this time, Charlotte had finished her _petit déjeuner_, and she rose, dropping a coin on the café table. She crossed the street to her little apartment on the second floor. When she had first arrived in Paris, she had found an ad in a local _journal_ looking for tenants. The apartment was tiny, a single room with a little bureau, a table, one chair, a mattress on a frame, and a large window that looked out onto the street. Charlotte could look out the window and see the streets of Paris and her new little café, and she had fallen in love. The rent was cheap, the neighborhood wasn't all that bad, and Charlotte could finally breathe easy and sleep at night. In a word, she was happy.


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own anything from Les Misérables. Warning, contains violence.**

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Charlotte passed the morning at her little table, writing. She had found a job with a little Parisian newspaper, writing a weekly column published under the pseudonym of a man. Charlotte didn't like it, but it allowed her to write, to be published even, and she received a weekly salary. The francs helped pay for the rent and food, and she used the remaining savings from the pawned jewelry to pay for new clothes or other extras when needed.

She had settled quickly in Paris, learning the secrets of her neighborhood, visiting her little café in the mornings, and bookshops and markets in the afternoons.

Charlotte love Paris, and yet it disgusted her. The beggars on the street, the prostitutes on the corners at night, and the criminals who beat and mugged for money showed how flawed the city was. Charlotte longed to write about them, the people of the street, to tell their story. She wanted to help, but didn't know how. How could one writer change anything? How could one woman change anything, for that matter.

She finished her column by lunch, and ate some bread and French cheese. With nothing more to do, she meandered onto the street again in hopes of finding an intriguing book or a new hat. At midday, there were many Parisians walking along the cobblestone street, entering storefronts and conversing. Charlotte saw two men speaking to each other in low voices, and one gestured down the street. The direction piqued Charlotte's interest, and she began walking in the way he pointed, following the naturally curving street.

As she walked, a group of street urchins, children really, darted beside her, causing her maroon skirts to sway, and laughing loudly. Charlotte laughed herself at the children's gaiety, and one little boy turned to offer her a crooked grin. He quickly joined the others in the growing throng in the streets.

She walked farther still, looking for whatever it was the two men had been discussing.

'This was a foolish idea,' she thought to herself. 'It is clear I need more friends to entertain myself with.'

She also grew concerned that, with the distance she had walked, she would be unable to find her way back to her apartment. But there were certainly more people around, so Charlotte decided she would simply ask for directions should the need arise.

Exasperated, she chose to make one more turn before heading back when she suddenly came upon a large crowd in a plaza or square. People stood in clumps and groups facing a stage of sorts set up against a wall. Upon the stage, Charlotte saw several young men, boys really, for they couldn't have been much older that herself. At her current distance, it was difficult for Charlotte to make out their appearance or their speech, although it seemed to be quite passionate based on the obscenely dramatic hand gestures made by the man shouting to the crowd.

Charlotte pressed forward, eager to hear what had drawn such a large crowd. She was far from her neighborhood, and thus recognized no one, yet these people must have united under a common cause.

Finally, only when she had pushed her way into the center of the crowd, could Charlotte hear what the man was saying.

"-a world where all men are equal. Imagine a world where one does not need to beg on the streets or sell their body. Our king does nothing for the people," the man paused for effect, eyes scanning the crowd. "Vive la République!" he shouted finally.

"Vive la République" "Vive la République" People in the crowd began to shout as well.

"The people must rise!" the man on stage continued.

"Vive la République!" the cry rose up and was continued by the crowd.

The people pressed forward, and amid the growing hysteria Charlotte was able to look at the man as he in turn watched the crowd. He wore a red waistcoat, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow. While his clothes appeared to be expensive, they were worn with age. His hair was light and wavy, and framed a handsome, stern face with a furrowed brow and excited, pleased eyes. The riled up crowd was his intention. His face was beautiful, but dangerous. This young man seemed capable of so much. What else could he accomplish besides this rally in the street?

Other men stood shouting beside him on stage, and Charlotte decided that, based on their apparent age, they had to be students. One had dark, curly hair, the other a lighter brown. She was disappointed that she had missed the majority of the men's speech, but it had certainly had an effect on the people around her. They continued to chant "Vive la République" and pushed forward, moving as one. Men, women, even urchin children shouted together and the clamor rose. Charlotte almost joined in the cry before she stopped herself, realizing she still had little idea of what the rally was actually for.

Suddenly a new shout rose above the din.

"Police! Police! Scatter!"

Charlotte turned her head and saw a patrol of guardsmen moving down the street on horseback. The crowd was reduced to panic, trying to run and scatter as the police neared with sticks, beating down on the backs of ralliers who passed beneath them. She realized the mistake of moving to the center of the crowd as she was caught against a mass of panicked bodies, all trying to escape into the narrow alleyways and streets. Going back the way she came was useless, as the police continue moving forward and the crowd surged on. She was caught in the current of people, and finally sought an escape down an unfamiliar street at the edge of the plaza. Breathless, she ran to distance herself from the chaos that had erupted as shouts continued echoing down the alley.

Charlotte ran a few blocks down the little street, and coming upon a crossroads, she discovered she had no idea where she was. She fled down another street, searching for markings or signs, but the farther she ran the more lost she became. She choked back a cry when she noticed the sun beginning to set. Panic welled up in her as Charlotte realized she would soon be alone, lost in Paris, at night.

In order to catch her breath, she slowed her pace to a walk. Already people began to emerge from alleys and darkened buildings; sleazy men, women with rouge and kohl and décolletages that bared their chests, and sailors looking for a night's company. Charlotte felt the hysteria rising as men looked at her with hungry eyes, and women shooed her off of street corners.

She continued on, ignoring the catcalls and laughter until a particularly eager man stepped in front of her.

"Aren't you a pretty little thing," He said gruffly, eyeing her over.

"Please, monsieur, leave me alone," Charlotte tried, keeping her head down. A light rain began to fall.

"Come now, let's have a look at 'ya," he said, roughly grabbing her chin to raise her gaze. She eyed him squarely.

"I'm sorry, monsieur," she replied with mock sweetness. "But I'm not selling tonight."

His eyes narrowed.

"Like hell you're not," he said suddenly and shoved her into an alley, darkened by the setting sun. Charlotte tried to scream but the man quickly pushed her harshly against a wall. Her shoulder made contact and the fabric of her dress ripped.

The man came up close to her and breathed a crude kiss against her neck.

"How much for the night, love," he whispered gutturally.

Charlotte heaved against him and struck him across the face.

"I don't think you could afford me, Monsieur!" she spat out the title.

He felt his jaw, then shouted, "You bitch!" and advanced upon her.

Charlotte couldn't run, because the alley was too narrow and he was at the entrance. He stepped towards her menacingly, and she tried to dart beside him. He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her back, and delivered a blow to her face. She staggered back and he shoved her violently to the ground. Her dress ripped, and her knees and forearms began to bleed. Before she could stand, he kicked her, hard, in the back. Again he kicked her, this time in the face. Charlotte threw up her arms to protect her head and the man dealt kick after kick to her back, side, arms, and legs.

The pain was explosive, red fringed her vision, and she briefly blacked out. She snapped back to awareness, however, when the man knelt down and attempted to force her legs apart. Charlotte knew of no way to fight him off. Her body was weak and beaten, her mind even more so. She silently prayed for God, an Angel, death even to save her as the man pushed her dress past her knees.

Her savior did finally come, but in the form of another criminal. This one leaned into the dark alley and shouted, "The Police! The Police! Hide yourself!" before departing himself. The man poised above Charlotte cursed and stood, giving her one last rough kick to the ribs before darting out of the alley. Charlotte heard a _crunch_ when his foot connected, and the pain she felt increased tenfold, blooming white hot from her side. The rain picked up as the sun set for good, casting the world in darkness.

Charlotte gasped for breath, and crawled to the end of the alley, curling up against the wall. She passed out there, with the rain washing the blood off of her face.

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**Author's Note: Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own anything from Les Mierables. **

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Some time later, it was difficult to tell how long, Charlotte awoke. The rain had stopped, but a deep chill had set in and she shivered in the darkness of the alley. When she tried to get up off of the wet ground, the stiffness in her muscles reacted, and she gasped at the pain. Her entire body ached, her ribs throbbed, and dried blood crusted her knees, shoulders, and arms. Charlotte had a difficult time seeing out of her right eye, as it had swollen partially shut, although it was too dark to see much anyway.

Despair and frustration flared up suddenly in Charlotte, and hot tears leaked out of her closed eyes. She refused to make a sound of cry out, though, and a quiet rage began to burn inside of her. She was angry, at the man who had beaten her like a whore, at the police who had done nothing to help, and at herself for allowing the situation to unfold as it had. If only she had abandoned that rally when she'd had the chance.

It took a great deal of stretching and massaging to get her tired body into a sitting position. Her dress was soaked, and the sodden, heavy fabric made her colder than necessary. Her delicate slippers had been lost in her hasty flight and subsequent attack, and now lay somewhere in the dark; mud and grime coated her bare feet. Using the wall for support, she rose finally, like a dark angel bent on vengeance. She limped out of the alley and into the street, and people swore it was a demon or a ghost they saw that night emerging from the shadows.

She knew of no other way to escape the hellish network of alleys and dark streets than to find someone who would either give her directions or a place to stay for the night. Thus, she set out again to wander the city. Along the cobblestone streets, houses eventually gave was to shops and stores, and one particular café was lit up against the dark night. Faint chords of piano echoed through the street, and Charlotte could hear voices from inside; the rest of the street was abandoned.

She crept forward in the dark, avoiding a pile of glass from a broken window that lay on the ground. It was her good fortune to miss stepping on it, for it would have sliced her foot and invited infection. Movement suddenly caught her eye as a dark figure approached the café from another side street, and on a newfound instinct, Charlotte bent down to retrieve a particularly formidable shard of glass to act as a makeshift weapon. She then continued forward silently.

The two people, Charlotte and what appeared to be a young man, reached the café at the same time. Charlotte moved against his back and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"A moment, Monsieur?" Charlotte purred into his ear.

The man turned around abruptly, and Charlotte took the opportunity to grab him by his lapel and shove him against the wall of the café, pressing the piece of glass against his neck like a knife.

"Where am I?" she spat at him. "What part of town is this? What is this place?" she continued angrily.

"Please, Mademoiselle," he spoke calmly with little worry or fear in his voice. "There is no need to shout. We are quite close, thanks to you, and it would please me if you spoke more," he paused, looking her over. "Intimately" he finished.

Disgusted, Charlotte sneered at him and stepped back, keeping the glass pressed to the man's neck. His eyes flicked to it briefly, and she examined his face. He was young, probably another student, but he appeared slightly un-kept and un-shaven. His hair was dark and curled in a messy style. Charlotte relented that he was handsome to a degree, but his eyes were hazy and unfocused. The reek of alcohol and wine hung on his breath, and realization dawned of Charlotte.

"You're a drunk!" she said, exasperated, taking the glass off of his neck, letting it drop to the ground as she realized he would be useless. . The drunkard shrugged lamely.

"And you're a street whore," he retorted.

Insulted, Charlotte raised her hand to strike him only to find her wrist seized quite suddenly from behind. She whirled around to face her captor, who had come up upon her with considerable stealth, and looked directly into the angry face of the blonde man who had led the rally earlier in the day.

"You!" she said, furious. He had caused this whole mess to happen with his infernal rally! All her problems were suddenly his fault.

"Me?" he questioned calmly. "We'll see. Combeferre, get rid of that shard of glass, I would hate for Bossuet to step on it."

Another man stepped out from behind the first and retrieved the piece of glass from where it rested besides Charlotte's foot. Self-conscious, she tucked her dirty feet beneath her skirts.

"Now let us see why this prostitute decided to," the blonde looked disdainfully at the drunk still leaning against the wall of the café. "Threaten one of our own." He finished finally.

"I am not a prosti-" Charlotte protested but the man holding her bloody wrist jerked her forward through the entrance of the café.

"Grantaire!" the blonde shouted back suddenly, and the drunk followed the pair through the door with the man Combeferre on his heels.

Inside, the café appeared to be, while well lit, empty. Charlotte heard voices but saw no one until she was led into a back room and saw a hall filled with a great number of young men, all talking jovially and drinking. Many heads turned to see the procession enter, the man holding fast to Charlotte while Combeferre and Grantaire slipped into the crowd themselves.

"What's this, Enjolras?" one man questioned with a look of humor on his face; Charlotte assumed he was speaking to the severe blond who gripped her arm. "It seems you've made a friend. How will dear Patria feel about his, eh?" The group laughed. The man Enjolras scowled and shook his head, and proceeded to drag Charlotte humiliatingly through the crowd.

"Let me go!" she cried out and began to resist.

"Stop that," he said and turned his body to address her. Again, he group of men laughed, but their laughter mocked the girl's efforts. In her frustration and anger, Charlotte balled up her free hand and swung a small fist to hit Enjolras squarely on the mouth. The room grew quiet as each man realized what she had done, and Enjolras' eyes took on a steely, dangerous look. Charlotte thought he was going to hit her back, and thus braced herself for the blow. Instead, he wiped his mouth and looked genuinely surprised to see blood on his long fingers. No one moved or scarcely breathed until Grantaire suddenly laughed out loud.

"Doesn't this little prostitute have spunk!" he said cheerfully. The tension in the room broke, and the men laughed again, not accusingly, but generous and good hearted. Enjolras shrunk to the back of the room as the boys pushed forward eagerly to see the brash young woman in their midst.

"I am not a prostitute," She said lamely, embarrassed as she realized she held the attention of most of the men in the room, save Enjolras and Combeferre who had gone to speak with him.

Charlotte looked down and examined her appearance: wet, stringy hair, grimy feet, a sodden dress with any number of rips and tears, not to mention her countless injuries, although a majority were hidden beneath fabric. She certainly looked like a woman of the streets.

"Then what are you?" asked one man, and Charlotte recognized him from the rally; the other students called him Courfeyrac. "Because only a whore could anger someone enough to receive that." He continued good naturedly, vaguely gesturing to the impressive bruise on Charlotte's face. His smile was kind, though, and genuine, and Charlotte couldn't help but like him.

She looked at her feet unsure of what to say or how to convince these men of the truth.

"I am a woman." She answered finally. Courfeyrac's eyes twinkled.

"That much is certain," he said and looked briefly to her trim waist and womanly curves.

"An _honorable_ one," she stressed. Courfeyrac just shrugged, and smiled at her.

"Ah yes," said another student, stepping forward. "A woman indeed. Your eyes are a tempest which draw men to to the sea." He said poetically. "At least one half of your face," he smiled ruefully, "is as delicate as a flower. I am sure all that dirt will just wash right off."

"How romantic, Jehan." Courfeyrac said sarcastically.

"Twas my intention." The man Jehan said, miffed. Charlotte giggled at their little exchange, and the attention returned to her once again.

Combeferre had returned to her side and asked gently, "Mademoiselle, do you have a name, or wish to share it?"

The men leaned in slightly to hear her response.

"Charlotte Gray," She answered truthfully.

"And how, Mademoiselle Charlotte, did you find your way to the Café Musain?" he continued.

"She has no idea where we are. She doesn't even know what the Café Musain is." Grantaire offered, drunk, from the corner, a bottle of wine in his hand. Combeferre raised an eyebrow at Charlotte.

"He is correct," Charlotte began. "I live on the Rue de Saint-Séverin, but I attended your rally today." She said, and pointed at Courfeyrac. "I recognize your face. But then the police arrived, and I became lost, and then-" she broke off suddenly, her face contorted with emotion.

"Ma chérie," Jehan exclaimed, wrapping a gentle arm around her waist. "You poor Mademoiselle!"

He had meant well, but Charlotte hissed loudly when his hand touched her injured ribs. Combeferre reacted, pushing Jehan away, and addressing Charlotte.

"Are you injured? Mademoiselle, what has befallen you?" he pressed urgently. The other students voiced their concern, and even Enjolras looked up from where he nursed his jaw in the corner.

The close space and eager voices overwhelmed Charlotte, and suddenly her head spun. Dizzy and confused, exhaustion and panic overtook her and she slumped to the ground, losing consciousness, the wooden floor a soft caress for her head as it fell.

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**So, this chapter had a little humor in it, something lighthearted after the last chapter. And we met some of the Les Amis! Thanks for reading. **

**-C**


	4. Chapter 4

**I do not own anything from Les Misérables. **

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Charlotte lay on unconscious on the floor of the café, but movement swirled around her. Combeferre, who stood nearest to her, knelt down and placed a hand on her forehead, searching for new injuries. The other students leaned in, practically knocking heads, but none knew how to improve the situation or rouse the girl at their feet. Concern for Charlotte was on each face; her effect was powerful on the students even if her time with them had been short.

A student, whom the others called Joly, quickly pushed everyone back. A student of medicine, he had some degree of authority within the situation.

"Get back," he shouted, "get back I say! She needs air, room to breath."

He felt her pulse, steady fingers pressing briefly to her neck and each delicate wrist. Charlotte stirred slightly at his touch. Joly stood.

"I believe she has just fainted," he confirmed to the room. "It is likely she had a stressful evening," he continued, referencing to her battered face.

"Joly," Courfeyrac called him down to the floor again. "Look."

Joly's fingers had moved Charlotte's hair away from her neck, and it fell away from her shoulders. On her back, it was difficult to see much, but Courfeyrac directed Joly's attention to the edge of Charlotte's gown where a large bruise and broken skin was evident.

"She received more than just a blow to the face," Courfeyrac said.

"She's been beaten." Joly's eyes were wide. "Badly.

"She will need medical help," Combeferre said, helping the other two students to their feet.

"Take her to my apartment," a voice said suddenly. The group looked up to see Enjolras make his way through the crowd. Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows, but Enjolras rolled his eyes.

"It is the closest, and she clearly needs a place to lie down properly," he said.

Joly looked unsure, but Charlotte suddenly gave a small moan, yet did not wake. Enjolras let out an exasperated sigh and brushed passed Joly. He knelt down and lifted Charlotte up, an arm beneath her legs and one supporting her back; her head lolled onto his shoulder.

"Your expertise would be greatly appreciated," he said to Joly and began walking out of the hall.

Combeferre clapped Joly on the shoulder and followed Enjolras out, at which point Joly did the same. At the door of the café, the party met a ragged, haggard girl.

"Is Marius in he-" the girl started in a hoarse voice.

"No, he is not." Enjolras cut her off. He seemed pensive for a moment. "That is odd, though. He was supposed to be here tonight."

"Well, if ya seem 'im, you tell 'im I's found 'is girl. Who's 'is?" The girl demanded, just noticing the woman in Enjolras' arms.

"A friend." Enjolras looked quite suddenly at the girl standing before him. He addressed her. "Éponine, I need your help. Will you accompany us to my apartment?"

The girl Éponine narrowed her eyes.

"I 'ardly know you, monsieur. And what could you possibly need me for, anyway? Your whore's done passed out, eh?" she leered at them.

"Éponine, I implore you. This woman has been injured, and I daresay she will need the aid and assistance of a fellow woman when she awakes." Enjolras gritted his teeth. "I will pay you," he added.

Éponine looked skeptical a moment more, but finally shrugged her bony shoulders.

"Fine," was all she said and walked out of the café once more.

The rest followed and made their way to Enjolras' apartment as the sun rose over the Parisian skyline and dawn began anew.

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**A/N: This chapter is really short, but I promise to update again this week! Enjoy!**

**-C**


	5. Chapter 5

**I do not own anything from Les Misérables. **

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Charlotte awoke in a strange place for the 2nd time in one day, it would seem. When she opened her eyes, she watched lazily as sunlight streamed through a wide window and lit the wooden floor warmly beneath her. But a panic seized her suddenly as her mind grasped that she was in an unfamiliar room with no memory of her arriving there. She sat up quickly and took in her surroundings.

She lay in a bed facing a single room with modest furnishings. Sunlight from the window struck a simple table covered in leaflets and pamphlets, and a washstand and basin lay in a corner. Finally, against the far wall, there was a small chest of drawers currently being littered through by a young woman.

Her appearance startled Charlotte, and she let out a small gasp. The girl looked over at her, but continued digging through the contents of the drawers. Unsure of what to do, Charlotte simply remained quiet and watched the girl.

She was dressed in rags, nothing more than a peasant's shirt and a skirt, the colors lost to time and weather a wear, rendering them a grimy brown. Her dark hair was stringy and lank against her shoulders. Her brief glance at Charlotte had exposed a sunken, haggard face and eyes that had experienced too much pain. She epitomized the class of people living on the streets, and yet she beheld a sort of beautiful misery.

After a time she shoved a drawer shut and turned towards Charlotte.

"Eh, nothing to take anyway," was all she said, shrugging shoulders thinned by poverty.

"Uh, pardon me, but where am I currently?" Charlotte asked cautiously.

"Eh, what's 'is name," the girl said distractedly. "It's 'is apartment." She sat down next to Charlotte on the bed and lunged forward, taking a length of fabric from Charlotte's dress in her dirty fingers.

"This dress was nice I reckon. Looks pretty bad now. So do you, by the way, but I s'pose you're prettier than that girl Monsieur Marius found anyway," the girl said rather bitterly.

"Monsieur Marius?" Charlotte looked confused. "Is this his apartment?"

"No, he doesn't live 'ere. I know where his apartment is, though. I knows things, I do. I right followed him home one time," the girl chittered on. "What 'appened to your face?" she added.

Charlotte ignored the question and said, "Then to whom, madam," Charlotte paused, raising her eyebrows at the girl sitting beside her.

"Oh, right, sorry miss," the girl started. "They call me Éponine."

"As I was saying, miss Éponine," Charlotte continued, "To whom does this apartment belong?"

Éponine looked at her. "Enjolras, of course," she said as if the answer was evident the entire time. "I knew I remembered 'is name," she said more to herself than to Charlotte.

"Enjolras?" Charlotte exclaimed, mortified. Of course it must be him, she thought to herself. The one man who disliked her, the one she so conveniently hit in the face, she was now resting in his apartment.

The apartment did suit him well, Charlotte mused, annoyed. The stark, bare walls in contrast to the well hewn bed described what little of the man she'd met well: evidence of money but no self-indulgence. A lack of material things characterized Enjolras perfectly. Charlotte noticed, even, his red coat cast onto the back of a chair, and with dismay realized she was laying in his bed. She groaned and began to rise out of the bed, and made for the door.

"Whoa, miss, wait!" Éponine shouted. "The Doc wants to make sure you're alright and what not." She stood quickly in front of Charlotte. "That's why I's 'ere." She said as added clarification.

"I don't understand," Charlotte said, wary of the girl.

"Well, Enjolras and Joly, he likes to think himself a medic but –" Éponine was distracted by something in the window.

"Éponine, please!" Charlotte snapped.

"What? Oh, right." Éponine sighed and started again. "Enjolras, and Joly, and Courfeyrac, well I guess the whole group, they seen your face and that little bruise right," she leaned forward, "there on your shoulder and reckon you were attacked or hit or something. After you fainted, Joly wanted to make sure nothing serious 'ad 'appened, so he, well Enjolras asked, but they asked me to help. Being a woman an' all," she finished matter-of-factly.

"So, if I am understanding you correctly, they wish to check on my condition for injury?" Charlotte asked.

"I guess," Éponine shrugged. "I dunno where they went, but I figured you should sleep."

"Thank you," Charlotte murmured, casting her eyes about the room.

"So what happened? Where do you hurt?" Éponine asked finally.

Again, Charlotte ignored the first question, but offered, "My back, shoulders, side mostly, though." She gently pressed the pads of her fingers against the side of her dress; the fabric was still wet. She grimaced.

"You need to take that dress off, you know," Éponine said.

Charlotte's eyes flashed, but the girl said kindly, "You're gonna catch your death if you don't. Here, I'll help," Éponine offered. Charlotte relented.

Together, the two women undid the lacing of the bodice and the heavy fabric fell away.

"I need to see your back, miss," Éponine said afterwards, indicating the corset and chemise that Charlotte wore beneath.

Embarrassed, Charlotte said, "I permit it," over her shoulder.

Éponine again undid lacing and strings and finally had the undergarments off, leaving Charlotte in cotton pantaloons and a bare back, facing away from Éponine.

"Oh," Éponine said quietly.

"Oh?" Charlotte asked, alarmed. "Oh? What does that mean?"

"It means I think I should get Joly," Éponine said and fled to the door, leaving the room. Alone, Charlotte limped over to a looking glass propped up against a wall, and looked at the reflection of her back; she gasped in horror at the image.

Huge blue, purple, and yellow tinged bruises covered her back. The skin had broken in many places and blood, some still fresh, covered the wounds. The criminal in the alley had left his marks on her arms and legs, as dark bruises covered them as well. The most alarming injury, though, was her side. The darkest bruise lay against her ribs, and a dull heat and slight swelling indicated a deeper injury. Charlotte cried out, looking at her damaged body.

Meanwhile, Éponine had fled to the café Musain to find Joly. He sat discussing something with Enjolras but looked up when the girl arrived.

"Ah, 'Ponine, how is our little patient?" He said brightly.

"I, uh," she stammered, "I don't know what to do. I think you better look at her. It's more than a little bruise."

Joly looked worried and stood. Enjolras made to follow but Joly pushed him back gently.

"I think it better, my friend, if I see her alone." He said.

"But –" Enjolras began.

"I don't want to make her uncomfortable," Joly said. "At least as little as possible. We do not know what happened to her, and discussing it might be unpleasant." Enjolras seemed to understand, because he sat back down and nodded, and watched as Joly jogged off to the apartment.

Éponine still stood before him, picking at something in her teeth. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she stuck her hand out, raising an eyebrow of her own. They looked at each other for a moment before Enjolras rolled his eyes and placed a 20 sous coin in her outstretched palm. She gave him a wink and skipped off after Joly.

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**A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews and follows! It's incredible having so many people support me and my little project, you all are the best. **

**-c**


	6. Chapter 6

Some time passed, and Enjolras felt anxious, still sitting at the table in the café. His skin itched, and he began looking for something to do, but he somehow felt responsible for the girl in his apartment. He hadn't even caught her name when she'd spoken it, and still, at least partially, thought her a prostitute. Yet until he heard of her condition, he was powerless to move, and thus stayed at his seat until Joly returned.

When he did, Enjolras stood quickly.

"How is she doing?" He asked the medical student.

"Fine. She has two broken ribs and I was unsure, but I think her wrist might have a slight fracture. Either way, I gave her a splint and bound her up," Joly explained.

"All that?" Enjolras asked, incredulous.

"Yes, in addition to extensive bruising and a good many cuts. She was severely beaten, Enjolras."

"Well, did she speak to you?" Enjolras said.

"Yes, actually. Charlotte –"

"Ah, Charlotte," Enjolras interrupted, nodding.

"What?" Joly paused.

"I apologize, it was nothing, please continue," Enjolras said, cataloguing her name to memory.

"Yes well," Joly gave Enjolras a look. "Charlotte was quite forward. She explained the entire situation. After leaving the rally, she became lost, and as night fell a man attacked and beat her in an alley. She then managed to find her way to the Musain, meeting Grantaire, and you, apparently, outside. She is a remarkable woman," Joly said with a subtle look of admiration on his face.

"Did this man rape her?" Enjolras questioned bluntly, as was his nature.

"What? No, h-he didn't touch her," Joly stammered. "But she indicated that it was his intention. Something scared him off, though, I think she mentioned the police." Joly looked uncomfortable.

"I would like to speak with her," Enjolras said.

Joly looked unsure.

"I would like to apologize for the way I acted last night. It would ease my conscience," he added.

"Well, she's sleeping now, but I suppose when she wakes up, it would be alright," Joly relented.

An hour or so later, Enjolras made his way from the café to his apartment, bearing food for Charlotte's midday meal. He rapped lightly on the door, a strange act as the room belonged to him, and upon hearing no reply he entered.

His entry into the room het his senses with the sharp tang of medical ointments, and the underlying scent of this own soap. His room appeared to be in order, save for a mass of fabric on the floor in front of his bed, a dress and what seemed to be a mess of undergarments; he shuddered.

He looked around and finally saw her, bent intently over his table. He cleared his throat, and she started at the sound.

"Oh!" Charlotte exclaimed, straightening. "You startled me." A hand leapt to the column of her throat.

Enjolras noticed she had been reading the pamphlets and papers on his table and glanced towards them. She followed his eyes and blushed.

"I apologize, but I found myself reading your literature," she explained.

"And?" he responded, curious of her answer.

"It's all very fine," she said demurely.

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, sensing a 'but' and calling her bluff. She thought for a moment, and then smirked at him.

"Well, the rhetoric is all fine and well written, but it does much to mask your intention, excuse me, the author's intention," she said, her nose lifting slightly.

"Yes, well, don't be alarmed if you do not understand it all," he said brushing past her to gather up the papers. "Not everyone grasps the political concepts."

Charlotte stepped back from the table to give him room, but called out, "You're a revolutionary, are you not? A republican, even? Your anti-royalist sentiments are clear even in your muddled, pathos filled writings."

Enjolras looked up, surprised, but Charlotte smiled to display her good will.

"Remarkable…" he murmured, not entirely angry at the insult, for she was right.

"Please, monsieur, you give me too much credit. I am simply another writer, and can thus see through the short comings of my peers," she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

Enjolras looked at her and said finally, "Mademoiselle, I fear we began our relations poorly. Might I properly introduce myself?"

Charlotte looked astonished but said, "Certainly."

"Very well, madam, my name is Enjolras," he said, and clicked his heels and gave a mock debonair bow.

"Charlotte Gray," was her response, and she gave a little curtsey, lifting her skirts.

She was in an odd dress, large and rather frumpy, and likely gleaned from the landlady or maid. It was too big and caused Charlotte extra awkwardness when she moved. Combined with her face and now splinted arm, she thought herself rather unattractive, but Enjolras asked her to dine at the table out of courtesy.

Once they had both sat down, he said to her, "I must apologize for the way I handled and treated you at the café last night. I should never have been so harsh."

He made eye contact with her and she blushed at his frankness.

"Yes well," she idly rubbed her un-splinted wrist. "I apologize for striking you. It was hardly appropriate or ladylike." She glanced at him, gauging his reaction. He only gave a small smile and rubbed his jaw. Charlotte smiled as well and began eating.

"You said you were a writer?" he said after a time.

Charlotte looked up from her food, surprised. "Yes, actually," she said.

"What do you write? Romantic melodramas and such?" Enjolras asked, attempting to be lighthearted.

"Ah, yes," Charlotte narrowed her eyes. "Romantic melodramas, dabbling poetry, and the occasional article in Le Journal National," she snapped.

His eyes widened and he swallowed.

"I apologize, I didn't –"

"Know?" she interrupted. "Of course not. Few people give merit to the female voice."

"On the contrary, mademoiselle Charlotte," he said sincerely. "I give merit to any one with talent, and Le Journal National most clearly gives evidence of yours."

Charlotte was surprised to hear this response.

"In face, an idea is forming," Enjolras continued. Charlotte raised a brow.

"Oh?" she said.

"Yes. You know little of my political beliefs or those of Les Amis de l'ABC –"

"I don't know who –" Charlotte started.

"I understand," Enjolras assured. "But regardless, we need the support of the common people. These writings," he cast an arm over the gathered pamphlets, "are clearly insufficient in attracting the attention of the people."

"I don't see how this includes me," Charlotte knitted her brow.

Enjolras looked at her for a moment, thinking. Finally he said, "Would you consider revising our pamphlets? Or, even, writing new ones?"

"Writing your pamphlets?" Charlotte looked astonished. "Good heavens, I've no idea what I would be writing about!" she exclaimed. "And that is if I decide to agree. I have a job, Monsieur Enjolras."

"I understand mademoiselle Charlotte, but might you consider it? Or, perhaps, attend one of our meetings to become acquainted with the politics?" he pressed.

"I-I don't know. Meetings?" she murmured, looking back down at her now empty plate.

Enjolras sighed.

"I see I've overwhelmed you. Please, all I ask is that you consider my proposition. We could of course provide you with a salary," he tried.

"Of course," Charlotte said sarcastically.

Enjolras lowered his eyes, but Charlotte relented.

"I suppose I might consider it. I admit the idea intrigues me," she said.

Enjolras smiled.

"It is all I could ask for," he said. "Now, if you are finished with your meal, I might imagine you wish to return to your apartment to recover and heal."

The look of relief was evident on Charlotte's face.

"Yes, that would be most ideal," she said, rising. "Thank you, monsieur Enjolras. For everything. And you must thank monsieur Joly for me, and mademoiselle Éponine as well, I –"

Enjolras rose from the table and raised a hand.

"Perhaps, you may have an opportunity to thank them yourself in the future," he said. "Now, if you would accompany me to the café, I imagine Combeferre would be delighted to guide you back," he smiled. "He's quite good at that."

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**So, i was off school this week so i got to update a lot. yay. finally a little bit of charlotte x enjolras! you're welcome! **

**-c**


	7. Chapter 7

**I do not own anything from Les Misérables. **

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Nearly two weeks had passed since Charlotte's adventures in Paris, and she was perfectly content to stay quite near her apartment and not leave, except for what meals necessitated. The café across the street was her only destination when she left, and she rarely stayed long. She didn't see the landlady for almost an entire week, and when she finally saw her to pay the rent, the old woman, who had seen her return before with a massive bruise distorting her pretty face, was quite shocked to see Charlotte after a significant time of healing. Her beauty once again presented itself, her ivory skin clear and injury free, although her large, expressive blue eyes were uncharacteristically guarded. A massive gossip with a keen eye, the old lady had a silent desire to uncover this young woman's secrets even as she pocketed her money.

Charlotte devoted herself to her newspaper, finding nothing else to do, and published a recent article that had gained significant attention. Her editor praised her writing and promised her more opportunities, but only so long as she continued to remain silent about her identity. Although Le Journal National was a liberal newspaper, the editor was a businessman as well as a reformer and needed to secure the patronage of his readers at all costs. Therefore, Charlotte must simply remain a man. Imaginary, but a man nonetheless. While at first it angered her, Charlotte began to see the silver lining to her unusual circumstances. At any rate, her parents would never be able to find her as long as articles were not being published in her name, and after a time, she became very blasé with the situation.

Her attention, she liked to imagine, was solely on her work, but sitting at her table it was not difficult for her mind to wander. She began to think often of the students she met a few weeks ago and Enjolras' proposal. She really had no concrete idea of what they wanted of her, nor did she know what they believed in, but curiosity is a peculiar emotion. It is desire and want, and frustration and determination, and Charlotte felt it all. She would find herself longing for another chance at conversation with any of those men, to compare politics, or discuss their beliefs. Fantasy corrupted her mind as she began to see herself among them, a comrade and a friend, and yet she had spoken with most of them only once, and briefly at that. She became alarmed at the thought that they wouldn't agree politically, before she shook her head, as if awaking from a dream, and attempted once again to focus on the paper in front of her. Being a particularly challenging political piece, however, Charlotte realized that she would need more research and reference material in order to complete the assignment. Sighing, she got up from the table and underwent a tedious toilet to prepare herself for an outing to the little bookshop down the street.

She shocked the landlady again when she left the tenement in a silk dress and hat, with her hair carefully coiffed. After all, she hadn't been in public in nearly two weeks. It was necessary to look nice when reentering the enclosed little society of this corner of Paris. She crossed the street and began walking, scowling when she remembered where this direction had taken her last time. The little bookshop, her destination, was down a different street, however, and so Charlotte was not required to wander back to the plaza where the rally was held. She looked down the street for a moment, thinking, before sniffing and turning away, walking into the bookshop, which was empty except for the doddering old man who ran it. Charlotte was slightly miffed at dressing up for nothing, but sighed with pleasure as she saw the rows of books before her. She was easily satisfied with them for company.

She allowed herself to become lost in the texts, meandering up one shelf and down another, reading the spines and occasionally flipping through a volume. The shopkeeper remembered her, a regular customer, and left her to herself. She did eventually find some source material in the back of the shop that actually pertained to her article, and began to read in earnest when she heard the door of the shop open and a pair of exceptionally loud people enter, interrupting her reverie. From the conversation, it appeared to be a young man and woman, on an outing of sorts.

"- and so it turned out he slept there, in between two pigs, and was too drunk to realize it!" the man blurted out the punch line to an unknown joke, and the woman released a fit of laughter. Charlotte wrinkled her nose at the woman's obnoxious laughter, girly and twittering, but her eyes widened as she realized she recognized the voice of the man.

"Now, let us ask the shopkeeper if he can give us directions," the man said, and now Charlotte was sure she knew his voice.

She groaned and ducked behind a shelf, but poked her head out to look down an isle just as a familiar curly dark head strode past at the opposite end of the shop.

"Good sir," Courfeyrac said to the old man. "Might you provide some assistance to myself and the good mademoiselle? We are in search of a particular café rumored to be in this neighborhood, and the lady would be most pleased to find it."

The shopkeeper mumbled something about a map and made for the corner of the shop currently occupied by Charlotte, and motioned for Courfeyrac to follow him. Charlotte panicked, not wanting to be discovered by Courfeyrac, especially if he was in the company of another woman, and thus fled to another isle just as the two men neared. Courfeyrac happened to hear, perhaps because his ears were tuned to such noises, the rustling sound of a woman's skirts, but the space was empty when he turned his head. Meanwhile, the old shopkeeper was pawing through books and papers to find his map.

Charlotte retreated down an isle, near the front of the shop again, and stopped to peer through a shelf to look at Courfeyrac's company. She spotted her browsing at the romantic novels on display near the door, a shallow reading option in Charlotte's opinion, and judged her appearance. The woman wore an expensive, if not gaudy, taffeta gown with blond curls and a rather pretty purple hat. Charlotte decided the woman was rather handsome overall, but had an unrefined sense of style. Charlotte herself preferred a simpler taste, like the pale yellow silk gown she wore today. She allowed her gaze to wander, but remained hunched over comically, spying through a gap in the books, when she suddenly noticed another person in the shop. She stifled a shriek when she saw the silent, stony, rather uncomfortable looking Enjolras standing off to the side.

Charlotte decided the day was a disaster, because despite her earlier fancies, she now had no desire to speak to either of these men, nor the vapid little thing they had brought with them. She still had no answer for Enjolras, and was still confused as to what she wanted. A confrontation was the last thing she aspired to, and she wasn't familiar enough with them to make any exchange not awkward. But no bother, she thought, I will simply remain in hiding until they have their directions and leave. She closed her eyes for a moment and was almost tempted to throw herself on the ground to wait in a more comfortable position, until she heard the shopkeeper call out to her.

"Mademoiselle Charlotte?" the old man called out, clearly searching for her. "Where have you gone?"

Her eyes flew open and she groaned out loud just as she heard Courfeyrac say, "Charlotte? So there is someone else inside?"

The men suddenly turned onto her isle of sanctuary, but she quickly ducked back around and headed down the next isle. Looping around, she looked and saw only the old shopkeeper standing where she had been; Courfeyrac had disappeared it seemed. Charlotte approached the shopkeeper and held out the book in her hand.

"Monsieur," she called out; he turned at the sound of her voice. "I would like this book, if you please. How much for it?"

"3 francs for you, mademoiselle," was his response.

"Lovely," Charlotte said, turning. "I would like to pay now, because I've really got to be goin-" but just as she turned away from the old man, she ran right into the chest of Courfeyrac. He had followed her and made the loop as well, and she stumbled back away from him.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. "I have discovered your hiding place!" he stopped a moment to study her face, keeping his hold on her.

"Charlotte," he mused. "Charlotte, Charlotte." Suddenly his eyes widened. "Charlotte?!" he exclaimed. "Is that you? But your face? My, it seems Jean was right, you certainly are beautiful," he said.

"Monsieur Courfeyrac, how nice to see you again," Charlotte said lamely; he didn't seem to notice.

"Come, please, Enjolras is here too. I am sure he would be delighted to see you again as well." Charlotte grimaced but Courfeyrac gently led her out of the isle and towards the front of the shop. "He's probably in the political section, if he has moved at all. Ah, it appears not," he said as the pair came upon Enjolras and the other woman, who looked up at Courfeyrac's approach.

"Oh, would you excuse me for a brief moment," he said and went to speak with the woman, leaving Charlotte at Enjorlas' side. He looked the same, his face as handsome as before, Charlotte couldn't help but notice, but he was in a different waistcoat and shirt than the last time she had seen him, and he had added an overcoat and a hat.

Enjolras eyed her for a moment before nodding and saying simply, "Mademoiselle Charlotte."

She was surprised he recognized her but found herself smiling and answered, "Monsieur Enjolras." Her attention diverted, however, at the sound of an indignant gasp from the other woman in the shop and the sound of Courfeyrac attempting to console her.

"I know, he was simply incapable of finding what you were looking for, although I would argue that old men have some value in this world," Courfeyrac said to the blond woman, then took her by the hand, kissed it, and began to lead her to the door. "I do hope you find your café, and perhaps our paths will cross again soon?" he questioned as he finally led her out of the shop and onto the street, waving as she stormed away.

Perplexed, Charlotte looked at Enjolras for assistance, but he had moved away from her and was gazing at the books on a shelf nearby; Charlotte scowled at his back, disgruntled at being dismissed so easily. Courfeyrac returned to Charlotte and noticed her expression.

"I see you two are making fast friends," he said humorously. Charlotte in turn scowled at him.

"Why did you send that woman away? I thought-" she broke off, looking off at the retreating blond.

"Who, Giselle? I only met her today. She needed help finding directions, and I was more than happy to lend my assistance. Enjolras not so much, but at least he kept his opinions to himself."

"But did you not wish to spend more time with her?" Charlotte asked, still confused.

"Not when more interesting company has presented itself. Would you, Mademoiselle Charlotte, care to join Monsieur Enjolras and myself for dinner? I fear he would make a sorry date for myself alone." He gave a little bow and offered her his arm. Enjolras looked up from a book and frowned.

"Courfeyrac, the meeting-" he began, but Courfeyrac cut him off.

"Pshaw, the meeting can wait. Besides, lets wait until after dinner to begin discussing politics. Charlotte?" he asked once more.

She cast a side-glance at Enjolras, who was rolling his eyes but heading for the door, and said finally, "I suppose dinner would not be a problem. Did you wish to go now?" and took the offered arm.

"Yes, actually, we have somewhere to be afterwards, and we simply cannot be late, or Enjolras will die. "

Charlotte laughed.

"We can't have that!" she exclaimed, and the two walked out of the shop after Enjolras.

"Are there any good places for dinner around here? We are unfamiliar with this part of Paris, you see. Enjolras wanted to get the scope of the area, but I daresay it is a charming little neighborhood. You live here?" Courfeyrac said as the trio walked along.

"Yes, in fact, my building is just up there along the street. And there is a lovely little café just there as well. Perhaps it was the one your friend was searching for?" Charlotte commented.

Enjolras turned his head.

"Perhaps Madam Giselle should have asked you for directions," he said.

Courfeyrac and Charlotte looked at him for a moment before letting out a laugh just as they came upon Charlotte's little café.

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**A/N- so, per request, i made this chapter longer. Thanks for the advice! Hope everyone enjoys!**

**-C**


	8. Chapter 8

**I do not own Les Misérables, obvi.**

* * *

The group entered the café and seated themselves at a little table in the back. In the familiar setting, Charlotte was able to relax and easily order the best things off the menu from the waiter who came by. The act done, she leaned back in her chair and observed the two men seated before her. Courfeyrac was eyeing two young women from over his shoulder but sighed and turned back around as they left the restaurant. Enjolras had fished a newspaper out of his waistcoat pocket and was idly reading it in the dim lighting. He seemed rather bored with the situation at hand yet tense nonetheless. It was clear a good deal was on his mind.

"Enjolras, is it absolutely necessary for you to read? We are at dinner, after all, and we have company," Courfeyrac said to him, and took a sip of wine.

Enjolras frowned but raised his eyes.

"I apologize," he said, nodding towards Charlotte. "But this article happens to be very interesting."

"Oh?" Courfeyrac questioned. "Enlighten us, please."

Enjolras gave a resigned sigh and folded the paper.

"If you really care, it is about the struggle for women's rights during the revolution. It includes some very appealing points. Perhaps we can use some," Enjolras explained. The topic seemed to strike Charlotte's interest because she leaned forward suddenly to look at the paper.

"What publication is this?" she asked Enjolras eagerly. He flipped over the folded paper.

"Le Journal National, I believe," he said, reading the front page. "Oh, perhaps you are familiar with the author?" he asked her, remembering the fact that she wrote for that paper.

"Who wrote it, now?" Courfeyrac asked, confused.

"Jacques Duchamp," Charlotte murmured, taking the paper from Enjolras' hand and reading the name.

"So it is. Do you know him?" Enjolras asked. The food arrived at their table, but he continued to look at Charlotte. She suddenly blushed profusely. The men noticed her reaction and waited for a response.

"I am him," she said quietly.

Enjolras' eyes widened and Courfeyrac snatched the paper out of her hand to look at the aforementioned article. They both sort of began speaking at once.

"But wait…"

"I was to understand…"

"But you are…?"

"Jacques Duchamp, yes," Charlotte said, cutting them off. "I write for the paper under a different name," she explained.

"A pseudonym, remarkable," Courfeyrac said. "Fitting you should write an article about women's rights," he went on, amused.

Enjolras still looked unconvinced.

"I have read one or two of his articles," he said. "Do you mean to tell me that it was you the entire time?"

"My articles," she corrected, "and yes. I was required to assume a different name the first time I published an article. That was several weeks ago when I first came to Paris, though."

"Well, if it caught Enjolras' attention, then it must be good writing," Courfeyrac said, looking between the two.

"Yes, quite good," Enjolras said, eyeing Charlotte. "Have you given any more thought to my proposal? It is becoming more and more apparent how valuable you would be."

Charlotte gave a little sigh and sank back in her chair. While she knew this part of the conversation would come up, she had hoped it would take longer to present itself or perhaps Enjolras would have simply forgotten it. It appeared, however, that he simply never forgot anything. He continued watching her as she struggled to pull an answer or even a response from her conflicted thoughts. Did she really want to plunge headfirst into whatever he was asking of her? What if this group of young men proved to be a crowd of people that would only bring her down? But it was impossible to ignore the inkling of desire that existed when she thought of beginning an adventure of any kind. What if she denied his request and felt only regret afterwards?

Courfeyrac seemed to sense her confliction because he said gently, "Enjolras explained to us his idea to have you write our pamphlets and such. God knows they need work, but perhaps you would like to know more about what it is we do. With more information, it might be easier to make a decision." He glanced briefly at Enjolras before continuing. "In fact," he said, "we are having a meeting tonight. Perhaps you would be interested in attending. I believe it would give you all the necessary information. Not the mention the fact that the boys would be delighted to see you."

Charlotte looked gratefully at him before smiling. The idea did make sense and it would finally answer her questions about what she was getting herself into.

"I-I think I rather like that idea," she said slowly. "And it would be nice to thank Joly again for his care before," she added.

"Yes, he's been in quite a tizzy since you left. He's been going on about some supposed cold he contracted and he was beside himself thinking he passed it on to you. It appears, however, that you are in good health. He will be overjoyed to see such fact," Courfeyrac said before calling for the bill.

"If everyone is finished, we really must be going if we are to make it to the café in time," Enjolras said, rising from the table and already striding toward the door. Courfeyrac smiled, a bit embarrassed, and left the necessary money on the table before offering his arm again to Charlotte.

"He's really just like this all the time," he said as the pair walked out after him.

They hurried to catch up with Enjolras and the group began walking through the now darkened streets of Paris. People were milling around, and Charlotte felt a jolt of fear that her last trek had imprinted upon her. She shrank closer to Courfeyrac, almost unconsciously, and he glanced at her. Her demeanor had changed since leaving the restaurant, and she seemed small beside him; he patted her hand, a bit unsure of how to comfort her. Enjolras, for his part, was occasionally going up to people sitting on the street and giving out alms. The act seemed to calm her down, because she began to relax when she realized that, with Courfeyrac and Enjolras, she was relatively safe. The trio walked through the streets and cut down alleys until the café Musain once again lit up the night.

Courfeyrac suddenly called out to someone leaning in the doorway of the café, and Combeferre responded, pushing off to walk out and meet them.

"Where have you been?" he asked, looking from Enjolras to Courfeyrac. "Everyone else is here. Even Grantaire managed to show up. I'm sure he's no longer sober, but anyhow, we're ready to begin."

"Combeferre, we found company. Say hello," Courfeyrac said, stepping aside to reveal Charlotte behind him. Combeferre's eyes widened, but he smiled.

"Mademoiselle Charlotte, is that you?" he asked, blinking at her in the dark. "You certainly look much better. Are you here for the meeting?"

"Yes, it seems I was roped into it," said, laughing.

"Well, in any case, it is good to see you once again. Courfeyrac, Feuilly and some of the other workingmen wanted to speak to you about something, I can never remember what, but they were chomping at the bit…" he turned away and Courfeyrac followed after him into the building.

Charlotte looked at Enjolras with a brow raised, but he merely frowned, and held open the door for her. They walked together through the café, once again empty, but he paused before the hall in the back.

"Welcome to Les Amis de l'ABC," he said before opening the door.

The scene was remarkably similar to the one she had walked into before: young men, many she now recognized but some she did not, sitting, drinking and talking. There were papers on tables, and a map of the republic pinned onto the wall, and they all looked up as Enjolras entered the room. His eyes swept the room, and she saw Grantaire respond by taking a swig of wine.

"Let's begin," Enjolras said curtly and left Charlotte to move farther into the room. The men gravitated towards him, making it so that wherever he stood was the center. He had no need for a stage; before he even began speaking the group lifted their faces towards him to listen. It was all Charlotte could do to simply stare. Enjolras was transformed; his face remained stern, but his eyes were alive and his voice excited.

"We have made gains with the other students," he said in a loud voice. "But we must add more focus to the workingmen and the artists in order to allow our numbers to swell." He continued on, making notes and commenting on things that Charlotte didn't understand. He gave commands to other students, who nodded when called upon and posed questions when necessary. She began to piece things together, that this society of young men and students needed more members in order to carry out their goals, but she was unsure of what the goals were. Doubt was creeping into her mind, and she unconsciously began making her way to the door. In the back of the room, it seemed no one noticed her presence, until she felt a gentle hand on her arm. She looked up and saw Combeferre smiling at her.

"Perhaps you would like to speak a bit?" he asked her. She looked unsure, and glanced once more towards the door, but he insisted. "Please, I can imagine that you have questions, and I would like to do my best to help answer them."

"Very well," she said to him. The pair walked to an empty table and sat down. Combeferre seemed relaxed and at home, and much the opposite of Charlotte, who had tensed up more and more since she had arrived only a short time ago.

"Enjolras is all fire and emotion. He truly believes in what he is doing, but sometimes loses himself in the rhetoric. It is important that one does not forget the philosophy behind it all. You mustn't miss the message," Combeferre began, pouring a glass of wine from a bottle and leaning back in his chair. He offered some to Charlotte, but she shook her head.

"And what is the message, Monsieur Combeferre?" she asked him directly. He twirled the cup in his long fingers before putting it on the table again and leaning forward, clasping his hands and leaning down on his forearms.

"Well, technically, Les Amis focuses on educating children, but we tend to diverge a bit. We are intended to be secret, you see, for many of our conversations could be considered, how should I put this, dangerous, if overheard by the wrong crowd," he said.

"Dangerous?" Charlotte narrowed her eyes. "How might a bunch of schoolboys be considered dangerous?"

"It is not the people who say things, but the things that which are said," Combeferre said ambiguously, taking another sip from his cup. "Think on it," he commanded her.

Charlotte leaned back in her chair, and looked around the room. She suddenly remembered the collection of papers on Enjolras' desk that started this entire thing. His anti-royalists sentiments, the call for the workingmen, the rally in the street. The facts clicked together in her mind and she opened her mouth to speak when something caught her eye from over Combeferre's shoulder. Her head tilted and her eyes narrowed as she focused in on it. Combeferre took note and turned to see what had distracted her, and they both just sort of looked at it for a moment. A gun, a long rifle, leaned almost casually against the wall of the café until a student leaned down to prop 3 more next to it. 4 rifles, and there! Against a far wall were several more. Charlotte spontaneously turned in her seat and scanned the room along the walls and found several more piles of guns, and what appeared to be cartridges of ammunition as well.

"It's a bloody armory in here," she murmured quietly, a hand across her forehead.

"Now, Charlotte, those are-" Combeferre began, but Charlotte interjected.

"Y-you're revolutionists, aren't you?!" she exclaimed, looking wildly around the room.

"Well, we-" Combeferre was unsure of what to say in order to not alarm her, but finally he just said, "yes."

"Revolutionists?" Charlotte said again, in disbelief. "What do you plan on doing, fighting the entire French army? Are you mad? You are all going to get yourselves killed!"

Combeferre looked almost sad for a moment, but said, "perhaps. But if we succeed, then it will all be worth it. Helping the oppressed class, ridding our country of its king, freeing France, it is all worth dying for."

He thought he almost saw a look of pity in her eyes, but she hid her emotions well.  
"How- how do you plan on doing all of those things? Because, I admit, they sound nice, but you must be practical, see some sense," she said to him.

"For the time being, we are focusing our attention on harboring the support of the people. In order for Paris to be free, Paris, I mean to say the people of Paris, must rise. We have been recruiting students, and speaking to the workingmen, but we have yet to make a big impact on the people holistically," he explained. Then he looked at her, meeting her eyes. "That, Mademoiselle, is where you come in. With your help, we can make a proper campaign for the people. Enjolras can make all of the fancy speeches he wants, but we need to be able to give the people a tangible thing, something they can read, hold, and feel. Only then will our message have its true effect," he finished.

She didn't say anything for a moment, but avoided his gaze, choosing instead to look at the people around the room. Joly looked frantic about something, but a young bald man quickly handed him a handkerchief, with which he blew his nose and looked grateful. Grantaire had a small group around him seated at a table, and they all laughed at one of his jokes. Enjolras scowled at him from a table of his own, and then he quite suddenly looked over at her.

Their eyes locked, and he took on the strangest look, at least from him. An odd combination of pleading and assertiveness corrupted his eyes, even from across the room. It was as if he was giving her an order under the pretext of a question. This look, which he held for several seconds, did much to convince her of the fact that this was something she needed to do. It was difficult to ignore his mandate, for that is what it had become. By accepting his offer, she could finally do something to help the people that needed it. She looked back at Combeferre.

"I wouldn't be shooting anyone, would I?" she said suspiciously. He laughed.

"No, my dear, of course not. Although they do say that the pen is mightier than the sword." He smiled at his own comment. "So what do you say? Are you in?" he asked her.

She looked once more at Enjolras, who looked quite inspirational in mid-conversation with Feuilly, and swallowed her misgivings.

"Yes. I am."

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**A/N: Wow, i updated this so fast... where has my real life gone? Thanks for all the fabulous reviews, you literally make my day everytime i read them. **

**-C**


	9. Chapter 9

**I do not own Les Misérables. **

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The main points of the meeting made, the men descended into laughter and jokes, and wine was poured freely. They gathered around long tables and someone played chords from a piano in the corner. Charlotte was a bit stupefied, realizing what she had agreed to, and looked up at Combeferre who was smiling at her.

"I think I would like that wine now," she said, eyeing the bottle in front of her. Combeferre laughed aloud, and completed her request. She took a sip, and let the warmth in her gut ease the tension in her body. He looked up suddenly, made eye contact with someone, and gave a curt nod accompanied by a smile. She craned her neck to see whom it was he had signaled, but rolled her eyes when she saw Enjolras looking at them, almost smugly.

"Come now, we must formally introduce you to the group. They're in such good spirits tonight," Combeferre said and stood, offering her his hand. Her eyes widened.

"What?" she said. "Now? What if they don't like me? I can hardly imagine they would like a woman performing a job that they themselves were incapable of," she said looking around.

"Ah, Madame, worry not. They will likely laugh at the fact that the chief needed help. Come on, then, up you go," he said, and helped her to her feet. She complied, but hastily drained her glass before being dragged into the heart of the room.

"Mademoiselle Charlotte? Is that you?" she heard a familiar voice call out. She recognized Joly at a table nearby, and he stood when she and Combeferre approached. "Don't get near me! I have a cold, I am sure of it, and I would hate to pass this ailment on to you," he said. To reiterate the fact, he used a handkerchief to feebly blow his nose. The group seated at the table rolled their eyes, but Joly merely smiled and sat back down, unfazed.

"Charlotte, this is Lesgle, or Bossuet, which ever you prefer," Combeferre said, directing her attention to the bald man she'd seen earlier, now seated beside Joly. "He's the son of a Duke," he whispered, rather loudly, and the group laughed.

"Ah, yes, but any fortune of mine has run to the hills," Bossuet said good-naturedly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Charlotte," he said to her.

"Likewise," she responded, smiling at him.

"And you remember Jean Prouvaire," Combeferre said, nodding at the young romantic, who was all but staring at Charlotte.

"Of course. It is good to see you again," she said smiling at him as well. The wine was making her smile a great deal.

"Mademoiselle Charlotte, you are truly a beautiful creature!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands together. "You are simply radiant, and you've done your hair just so. Lovely," he sighed.

Courfeyrac had approached the group and clapped Prouvaire on the shoulder.

"Calm down, goodman. There will be plenty of time to pen poems about the beauty of our new friend," he said, laughing.

But Charlotte laughed aloud and gave a little curtsey.

"All the same, my thanks, Monsieur," she said to Prouvaire. He turned pink.

"Over in the corner we have the always pleasant Bahorel," Combeferre said next, and Charlotte looked over to where Grantaire was seated next to a dark-haired young man. "He certainly has his opinions. A bit of a fighter, though."

Courfeyrac snorted.

"A bit? He always in a row," he said looking over at Bahorel.

"Hush," Combeferre said. "Now who else? I suppose you may meet Feuilly after he finishes speaking to Enjolras. God knows where Marius is. He rarely shows up to these things. Courfeyrac? Where is your flat mate this evening?" he asked.

Courfeyrac, who was currently pouring himself some wine, merely shrugged.

"An odd fellow, that Marius. He keeps such strange hours. For a while he spent most of his time in the gardens. He could have almost posted it as his address in the place of our apartment's," he said.

"No matter. Have a seat, Charlotte, mingle a bit," Combeferre commanded her, taking a seat himself. She complied, and quickly joined the conversation.

The group talked a while, but a great upheaval from Grantaire and Bahorel's table piqued her interests, and she wandered over to their station. She came upon the two of them, both already quite drunk, competing in a drinking game comprised of arm wrestling. When Bahorel, the superior, defeated Grantaire, the loser let out a roar but gulped the wine almost gleefully. Bahorel laughed and beat his chest, but looked up when he noticed Charlotte watching.

"This must be Charlotte!" he shouted. "Welcome! Care to play?" he asked, no other introductions or explanations necessary. She laughed but shook her head.

"I think not. But may I watch?" she asked, indicating an empty seat across from Grantaire.

"Your actions are your own, Madame. Ask permission from no one," he said, and looked for a new opponent. When another student volunteered, Bahorel defeated him easily, but chose to drink of his own volition. The games continued thus, between many of the students around the table, and the reactions of each loser was watched and thoroughly enjoyed by the others. At some point Grantaire handed Charlotte another glass of wine, and insisted she take it. Already lightheaded, she took small sips and continued to watch the spectacle.

She made conversation with many of the students, and even some of the workingmen as well. She met Feuilly, and they had quite a long discussion about Poland, and about the history of Greece. He was nearly as well read as she, surprising for his occupation. His long, deft fingers drawing little maps on a piece of scrap paper were clearly adept at construction. Delicate yet sure, they did not waver in their course, and she could understand how he would be quite talented at making fans, from which he earned his living. She rather liked Feuilly. He seemed generous and open, and yet confident in the fact that he had borne himself up. He was a direct product of himself.

The piano music picked up sometime during the night, and the boys managed to drag her into a dance. She was passed from one pair of arms to the next, laughing exuberantly. It was at this point that she saw through the slight haze of wine and realized how happy she was. Human companionship had found her, and friendship was saving her. She was experiencing something she had never had as a child, and that was the company of others. True, she had met many merely an hour ago, but they danced as two do after a lifetime of conversation. Camaraderie had taken root and joy had flourished inside of her. She spun breathlessly around before finally calling for a break. The boys groaned, but continued on in a dance of their own; she didn't recognize the steps. Humming to herself, she collapsed into a chair to watch from afar.

"May I sit?" she heard a voice call from above her.

Startled out of her reverie, she looked up and saw Enjolras' face looking down at her.

"Of course. No need to ask," she hastened to reply. He had almost slipped her mind. Embarrassed she looked back to the boys. Bossuet was showing Joly the steps to a certain dance. Courfeyrac said something to them and Bossuet quickly shoved him away, frowning; Joly simply gave a delicate sneeze.

Enjolras sat down beside her and didn't speak for a moment. He too watched the students, but after a moment turned his head to look at her. Surprised by his attention, she turned to face him as well.

"They are quite taken by you," he said finally.

She frowned.

"Is that bad?" she asked him, worried about his response.

He shrugged.

"No. Why should it be? You are clearly a charming young woman. They enjoy your company." He explained, looking away again.

"I'm charming?" she asked him with a smirk.

It appeared he didn't hear her because he simply said, "I trust Combeferre explained our sentiments and situation?"

She gave a small pout, unseen, and sighed.

"Yes, revolutionary, I understand everything," she said to him.

"Good." He suddenly turned back towards her and looked her in the eye. "Because disillusion can be dangerous," he said firmly. His gaze softened. "But I am pleased you have agreed. It eases one of my many burdens," he said.

He stood to go, having said what he wished.

"Goodnight, mademoiselle Charlotte," he said with a nod, and walked away.

"Goodnight," she murmured after him.

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**A/N: so this chapter is kind of dumpy, and short. sorry. Im working on the next chapter and i can't even. get ready. it's going to be eppppic. alkshf. so sorry this chapter kinda sucks.**

**-C**

**p.s. I hope i got all the les amis... right. Good characterization is hard, and i hope i did a good job. **


	10. Chapter 10

**I do not own Les Misérables. **

* * *

Charlotte woke up with a considerable headache and groaned aloud. She rolled out of bed, changed out of her nightgown and attempted to find a dress to where. The wine was most definitely a mistake, and it took a moment of sitting for her head to clear. Eventually she found the strength to rise and dress, and left her apartment to find breakfast. The portress, however, stopped her at the door.

"A young man is here to call on you, Mademoiselle Gray," she said, gesturing dramatically towards a sitting room in the back. "He has been here all morning," she whispered.

"Who-?" Charlotte began but stopped when she saw Enjolras emerge from the room.

"Monsieur Enjolras? What-?" Charlotte started but Enjolras raised a hand.

"I apologize for coming unannounced," he hardly looked apologetic.

"No, that's quite alright. Did you, um, need something?" Charlotte asked. Enjolras looked down.

"I was actually hoping we could work together for a bit today. Perhaps begin talking about what you are to write about," he said, casting an eye at the portress who continued to eavesdrop from the top of the stairs.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes and looked at him. He was in a black waistcoat, white shirtsleeves, a black cravat, and no over coat due to the April spring heat; he had a hat in his hand. He looked incredibly handsome, and she idly fingered the loose hairstyle she had adopted in her haste to get ready.

"That all sounds fine, I suppose," she said finally, then gestured toward the door. "I was just about to eat breakfast, and you are welcome to join me. I must confess that I only eat at one café, and you yourself have dined there before," she said looking at him. He merely smiled.

"That sounds fine," he said, and moved to open the door for her.

They walked to the café, but only Charlotte ate seeing as Enjolras had eaten previously. They talked pleasantries and made idle conversation, which surprised Charlotte. Enjolras never really lost his austere attitude but he was capable of being charming. They spent the rest of the morning reading old pamphlets and talking about new ones; Enjolras had a clear idea of what he wanted, but encouraged her to take creative freedoms. Her beliefs and ideas about politics reassured him that she would write something that would represent Les Amis well.

At midday he proposed a walk through the streets and Charlotte agreed, finding herself restless in the small café. They walked beside each other, quiet as they walked beneath shops and houses. He pointed out streets named after political figures from history, and showed her the Luxembourg Gardens. She had not taken the time to fully explore the city outside of her little neighborhood when she'd first arrived, and was grateful to him for showing her Paris. He eventually led her back to her apartment, and with a tip of his hat he was gone. A bit bewildered she walked slowly back up to her apartment on the second floor. Almost in a daze she worked on the column for her newspaper, but her thoughts kept drifting back to her work for the students. In reality she just kept thinking about Enjolras. It really had been a pleasant day with him. She sighed and tried to keep working.

The next morning she awoke to someone banging on her door. It was the portress.

"Mademoiselle Charlotte! Wake up! The young man from yesterday is here, and I will not have him waiting for hours again. Get up!" she yelled through the wood.

Charlotte nearly fell out of the bed.

"What? I- I'm coming!" She screamed back, frantically searching for something to wear. Distressed, she practically flew down the stairs. It appeared Enjolras had heard the entire exchange because he was frowning and looked confused.

"I-I'm sorry. I thought you understood that I would be back again today. We still have work to do, if you are free," he said, replacing his hat once more upon his head. She confirmed this with a nod. "It appears you once more need breakfast," he said. She looked at him and sighed and headed for the door.

They once again spent the morning looking over writings, but this time it was newspaper articles and journals that pertained to the cause. Charlotte was fascinated by his profuse supply of literature, and enjoyed reading it all. They helped inspire ideas, and she itched to begin writing them down.

They again walked the city, but this time Enjolras took her to the poorer neighborhoods of Paris, where they talked about the problems of the city and what could be done to ease them. The pair discussed enlightenment ideas and the rights of man, and the inspiration of a democratic France; Enjolras occasionally gave alms to women and old men on the street. Towards the end of the day, he walked her back to her apartment, but before leaving he stopped at the door.

"Will you be free once again tomorrow, Mademoiselle?" he asked her, recovering from his previous mistake. She smiled at him.

"Yes, monsieur," she responded.

"Until tomorrow, then," he said and tipped his hat before walking away.

Nearly a week passed in this manner. Every morning Enjolras called on Charlotte, and the pair spent the day together working, or walking around Paris. It was presumed that he attended classes in the afternoon. Near the end of the week, Charlotte began writing multiple versions of a new pamphlet and brought it up to Enjolras as he walked with her back to her apartment.

"Would you care to read it now?" she asked him at her door, and gestured over her shoulder.

He checked a pocket watch from his waistcoat and frowned.

"I fear that I would not have an adequate amount of time to read it all. There is a meeting again tonight, though. Perhaps you could come and bring your draft with you, and I may read it after?" he asked.

"Yes, that sounds fine," she responded, happy to be able to see the other students again. He smiled, pleased at the solution.

"Then I will see you tonight. Good day, Mademoiselle Charlotte," he said and walked off.

Charlotte walked into her apartment and leaned against the closed door. She could see Enjolras walking off at a distance from her window, and found herself admiring his frame from afar before stopping herself and shaking her head. She sighed, thinking about the week that had passed. She had grown rather accustomed to his company, and found she quite enjoyed it. She didn't know what it was to enjoy someone's company, to miss them in their absence, and to feel a quiet anxiety before they arrived. It was foreign to her and it made her uncomfortable. She remembered people looking at them when they walked together, women admiring his features and frowning at the woman at his side. She didn't notice the men, who stared at her as she walked past, but puffed up their chests at seeing she had an escort.

Enjolras, for his part, appeared unaffected by his time with Charlotte. He didn't offer compliments like Jean Prouvaire or Courfeyrac, and continued to address her formally. It seemed he did value her opinion, however, and expressed his enjoyment of her most recent article, but that was the extent of his feelings. Charlotte, on the other hand, often caught herself staring at his profile when he read, his fine aristocratic nose and marble skin pleasantly distracting. She felt foolish because she felt little butterflies in her stomach when he touched her shoulder to point out a building, or became nervous whenever he got close. She fretted a bit about whether their routine would change after she became more comfortable with his writing process; mornings would be considerably duller with out him. How vapid she must seem, she thought to herself. It was almost as if she had a schoolgirl crush on him. Such things were hardly worth her time, but her thoughts nonetheless drove her to perfect the draft she had been working on to present to Enjolras. By evening it was prepared.

The second meeting commenced much like the first, one difference being that Marius, a friend of Courfeyrac's, was in attendance. Courfeyrac naturally introduced them.

"Charlotte, dear," he said, clasping Marius on the shoulder. "This is my friend Marius Pontmercy. We room together, but isn't he just the prettiest thing?" he said, laughing at his friend and cuffing him lightly on the chin. Marius colored deeply and looked sheepishly away from Charlotte, attempting to loosen Courfeyrac's grip from his shoulder.

He was quite handsome, Charlotte though, with a high brow and black hair. But his clothes were quite worn. He professed excuses and finally ducked away, blending into the crowd.

"Bloody Buonapartist," Courfeyrac mumbled after him. Charlotte smiled, and led him to a seat as Enjolras and Combeferre began speaking about something. Charlotte clutched the packet of parchment in her hand, and waited for the meeting to end. Enjolras was giving testimony to the process of law, or some sorts, but Charlotte paid little attention. It took forever, it seemed, but finally he concluded business and stepped down. He motioned for her to come to him.

She made her way through the room, the students calling out their goodbyes as most of them left. Grantaire alone stayed seated, nursing a bottle. Enjolras sneered a bit at him and directed Charlotte towards the door as well.

"Is it alright if we look at your draft in my apartment? Combeferre had a photo he wanted printed, but I left it up there, and I want to see if it would coincide with any of your writings," he said at the door.

"Yes, of course, that's fine," she replied, and preceded him out of the door. His apartment was quite close, although she would have had no memory of that. The interior was familiar, however, and little had changed in the weeks since she first awoke there. He walked towards the table and shuffled through papers before producing an image depicting children in the streets. It was then that he looked at her.

"May I?" he said and smiled.

She wordlessly handed over her papers. He began to read them, and she walked over to stand beside him, trying to gauge his reaction. She had written several, but after the first one he turned his head and exclaimed, "Charlotte, this is fantastic!"

She blushed and stayed where she was at his shoulder, letting out her held breath in a rush. In a gesture meant to be supportive, he reached out and place his hand on the small of her back, with his thumb just touching her side. Having never concerned himself with women, he had no way of knowing the effect he had on Charlotte, who stared at the contact. Her breath caught once again, the pace of her heartbeat accelerated, and the pads of his fingers were tiny pinpoints of heat, searing through layers of fabric. He continued reading, but she unconsciously moved closer to him. He was unbearable handsome in the candlelight, and it felt almost natural having his arm around her. She had, however, no previous experience with men. Without thinking she placed her hand upon his extended forearm. He looked up at her, surprised. She blinked at him, heat rising to her cheeks. Some instinct motivated her onward.

"Charlotte, have no worries, you writing is perf-" he started, but suddenly and without warning she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. He stiffened immediately, and she pulled away nearly as quickly. Her eyes were wide, and she looked quite panicked, gaping at him.

"I-I'm so-" she broke off, closing and opening her mouth. He deliberately withdrew his hand from her side and stepped back a pace. He looked down, avoiding her frightened gaze. He stood like this for a moment.

"Charlotte," he said finally. "Perhaps it would be better for you to leave."

She let out a quiet little gasp, staring back at him. He looked up at her.

"I'm sorry," he said, but didn't move any closer to her.

She felt the heat rising in her face, and let out a harsh, barking laugh.

"Believe me," she said in a rough voice, "so am I." She leaned around him and grabbed her stack of papers off of the table, snatching one out of his hand. She stormed towards the door and wrenched it open.

"Charlotte, I'm-" he called out, but the door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the room.

* * *

**AGHH! so this happened. (Although i've been planning it for a while... *evil laughter*). the feels right now, though. hopefully i will update soon! i can't leave y'all hanging forever. **

**-C**


	11. Chapter 11

**I do not own Les Misérable. I am not Victor Hugo. Obviously. **

* * *

"Charlotte, I'm-" she heard him say behind her but the door cut him off. She flew blindly down the stairs, nearly tripping on the last one, but caught herself against the door jam. She stood there a moment, breathing heavily, and suddenly let out a hysterical laugh, considering her situation. She leaned against the wood, laughing like a madwoman, until she slowly transitioned into tears. She heaved out a sob and pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes to try and stem the flow of tears. She sat like this for a moment, trying to calm down and control her irregular breathing.

Never in her life had she felt so foolish, so unsure of herself. She used to pride herself on her will and her strength. But throwing caution to the wind, and throwing herself at Enjolras, had unnerved her. His rejection stung like a slap, and her face burned. Of course he would have no interest in her; he had never indicated that he cared for her, and she had simply spun some unhealthy fantasy for herself. The thought only made her more embarrassed and she choked back another sob. Thank goodness no one was watching her in this compromising position, but she looked around anyway. Eventually, she stopped hiccupping and wiped her eyes and straightened, pushing off from the door and looking out to the street. Her eyes were like dark clouds.

"I need a drink," she said out loud, and headed for the Musain.

She stormed into the empty café and called to the owner to bring her something, anything. She sat down and waited until a bottle was placed in front of her, and when it arrived, she ripped out the cork and raised it to her lips. Before she drank, however, a low chuckle came from the back of the room. She paused deliberately and turned around to glare at the source, but stopped when she saw Grantaire sitting in the corner; the room was empty save for him. He laughed again, and stood up, wobbling over to her with a bottle. She finally took a swig from her own, and eyed him darkly.

"You look like you're in a rage," he said, slurring slightly. "I'd hate to be at the end of your temper, although I guess I've been there before," he rubbed his neck, remembering their first encounter. He plopped down at Charlotte's table, across from her, and took another sip of wine.

"How was your little tryst with Enjolras? Did you get any work done?" he said, and laughed a little at his own joke. She, on the other hand, glowered and sunk lower in her chair, and took the opportunity to take another drink. She didn't say anything.

He noticed.

"Why are you all upset? I only meant it as a joke," he scoffed, but then his eyes widened. "Wait, did something happen? Between him and, and you?!" he exclaimed.

"What? No, no nothing happened," she mumbled and simply drank more. Already the world was mellowing and her head was beginning to spin, but she had the intention of erasing this night from her memory.

Grantaire looked at her for a moment and waited. Finally she looked up and was met with his raised eyebrows. She sighed angrily.

"Trust me when I say that nothing happened," she said slowly. "Absolutely nothing…"

Grantaire looked unconvinced. "Right," he said. "Nothing. Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" he said to her.

"Yes," she grumbled and just drank more. She continued drinking and Grantaire just watched her, mildly impressed. She suddenly put down her bottle and looked up at him.

"Is there something wrong with me?" she blurted out. "Something off putting, or unattractive? Because I'm sorry if I just don't understand…" she rambled.

"Off putting? What?" Grantaire was confused. "You, love, are not off putting. Haven't you read all the poetry Jehan wrote about you?"

"Yes, but there," she whined into her bottle, "there must be something that would make someone not like me, not care for me."

Where alcohol gifted Charlotte with confusion, it helped Grantaire clear his mind, and he seemed to understand.

"I think I see what has happened," he said knowingly. "This… person that you are concerned about, they didn't express any interest in you?"

She raised her eyes in confirmation.

"I see. And, based on the fact that you just left his apartment and you are now drinking away your worries, I am willing to guess that this person is Enjolras," he said to her. She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. He let out an odd, bitter laugh.

"Aren't we a pair, then," he slurred quietly to himself. She looked up.

"What does that mean?" she asked suspiciously. He merely shook his head and gave a small smile.

"It doesn't matter. But Charlotte, I feel I must explain some things to you," he reached for his bottle but found that it was empty; he wrinkled his nose and continued. "You mustn't take Enjolras to heart. It seems you care for him?" he asked her.

She rolled her eyes. "I thought I did, but now, who knows…" she mumbled.

He tried to look consoling. "Enjolras is of a particular breed. He, he doesn't care for women. It is as if they do not exist. I don't think he has ever been with a woman before," he tried to explain.

Charlotte looked even more heartbroken and confused.

"Men, then?" she asked. This caused Grantaire to laugh.

"We honestly do not know. But what this means is that it isn't you. It's him. Enjolras wouldn't notice the most beautiful woman if she kissed him on the mouth," he said, chuckling. At this, she groaned again, letting her head drop all the way to the table with a thud.

He looked at her with an amazed expression. "You actually-"

"Kissed him?" she raised her head. "Yes," she moaned, and covered her face with her hands. He moved to sit beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

"How did he react?" he asked eagerly. "Did he faint from shock? Did he cry? I bet he mumbled something about the Partia."

Charlotte laughed in spite of herself. "No," she said, resting her head on his shoulder. "He asked me to leave." Her laughter sort of died out.

"The gall," Grantaire said bitterly. "One would think he had more class."

Charlotte chuckled again. "You're just trying to make me feel better," she said.

"Perhaps," he said, and reached for her bottle to drink out of instead. "Is it working?" he asked.

"Maybe," she responded, taking the bottle and drinking after him. "I just feel so foolish. I hate it, being this weak. I should just call the whole thing off. I suppose it's not too late."

"Call what off? You're little writing thing?" he said.

"Yes. That way I will never have to see Enjolras ever again," she laughed at the idea.

Grantaire looked shocked.

"Charlotte, you can't just quit!" He said, incredulous.

"And why not?" she asked indignantly.

"Because, you have to show Enjolras that you are not some vapid little love struck girl," he explained, taking the opportunity to drink more from her bottle. "You are a strong, independent woman who kisses who she wants and makes the rules. And she writes damn well, to boot. Or at least, I assume you do." He shrugged.

"But –" Charlotte began, but Grantaire cut her off.

"You can rub this in his face, if you want. Show him that he didn't make you feel terrible, whether he meant to or not, and he no longer has the power to. Plus, it sounded like your writing would actually help the cause," he added, knowing it would help convince her.

She brightened a bit at the thought. "I suppose it would be interesting to prove myself," she murmured. "It would help our relationship if it all seemed casual, anyway. Perhaps I kiss men all the time. He has no way of knowing. I will finish writing tomorrow, I suppose." She looked at a clock, and seemed to realize how late it was; the second bottle was now empty. She lifted her head off of Grantaire's shoulder and tried to stand, but teetered and had to lean against the table for support.

"I think it would be best if you got home now," he said, grabbing her elbow and leading her towards the door. "I will walk with you, if you'd like"

"Walk home? I can barely stand!" she gasped, her head spinning wildly.

"Yes, well, staggering home is the best part," he said ruefully. "Why do you think I drink so much?" She frowned at him.

The next morning she awoke with a pounding head and dry mouth; she stood up, and was immediately sick. She washed her mouth out and drank some water, and tried to remember what happened after leaving the café. She had walked back with Grantaire. She had seen him disappear into the night, but she suddenly panicked when she couldn't remember if she had managed to get her drafts from the table. She spotted them on the floor near her bed, though, and sighed with relief.

She wrote and edited furiously all morning, correcting every minute detail in all copies of the pamphlets. By midday she deemed them perfected, and could find no flaw. Grimly she rose, and left her apartment in search of Enjolras, determined to give show him she was just as dedicated to the cause, that she was able to brush off their little incident with out care. Heading to the university, she waited on a bench trying to think of a way to find him, when Combeferre walked briskly by, his head in a book and his spectacles on the edge of his nose.

"Monsieur Combeferre!" she called out, rising from her seat. He stopped and turned in a funny little circle searching for the source of the voice. He stopped and smiled when he saw her nearly beside him.

"Mademoiselle Charlotte, I didn't expect to see you today. What a lovely surprise!" he said, and tipped his hat.

"Likewise, monsieur," she said. She looked around subtly, looking for Enjolras.

He followed her eyes. "Can I help you find something?" he asked politely.

She looked back at him and smiled.

"Someone, actually. I am looking for Enjolras. I have something to give him," she said, waving the papers a bit.

"Oh, you're just in luck. I left him in the library not ten minutes ago. It's that large building just so, but you will need to go to the second floor to find him. He likes to hide from the youths," Combeferre chuckled, and gestured to a large building on the corner. Charlotte thanked him, and after he tipped his hat and walked away, she herself walked briskly to the building and walked in.

She had to huff it up the stairs in her long skirts, and paused at the top to look at the room to find him, as well as catch her breath. Enjolras was indeed in the back, in one of the many carols that gave students privacy; the openings faced the main room, and she began walking towards him deliberately. Another student in a carol beside his noticed her, and his eyes widened, thinking this woman was walking towards him. He began to rise, but she gave him a pointed look, and he sat back down sheepishly. She frowned and turned to walk into Enjolras' instead, and the other boy looked decidedly disappointed.

Charlotte walked right up to Enjolras and dropped the stack of papers in front of him, breaking his concentration on the textbook before him. They fell with a soft thud, and he looked up, surprised, and then confused when he noticed it was her.

"Charlotte? What –" he began, but she cut him off, ready with her answer.

"The pamphlets are finished. I have edited them, and it would do more harm than good to bowdlerize them yourself. They are ready to be printed when needed," she said, and abruptly turned on her heel and left the carol before he had a chance to reply. She walked down the room once again, smoothing her skirts to still her shaking hands, and gave a hidden little smile of triumph.

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**A/N: update. meh. good for charlotte. i hAVE NO IDEA WHERE TO GO AFTER THIS. i mean, generally yes, but gahh... suggestions?**

**-C**


	12. Chapter 12

**I do not own les miserables. I think you all would know if i was really victor hugo in disguise. **

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Charlotte breathed heavily after leaving the library and doubted her choice of words. Had she been too harsh? Too forward? She supposed it didn't matter, he had her pamphlets and that was that. If only she could permanently avoid discussing with Enjolras their kiss. She had an inkling that this wasn't true, although one could dream. She looked around, and tried to find a café or tavern to get lunch, because her stomach was grumbling in protest. She had ignored her body in favor of writing, and she was in desperate need of food.

Walking back across the street to the cobblestones beyond, a group of children brushed past her in their haste and play. Charlotte suddenly felt the hair on the back of her neck rise and felt a faint touch, almost a whisper of a touch, from behind. She whirled around a found a small boy, perhaps 10 or 12 years old, looking at her with wide eyes. He was dirty and wretched, dressed in an odd combination of ragged clothes, most of which appeared to be too large for his small frame and hung loosely. He tried to run but she lurched forward and caught hold of his wrist, while simultaneously searching through her pocket for the change purse that help her money. His friends darted off into a crowd.

"Ey, Miss, let me go!" he griped, tugging feebly at her grip.

Finding her pocket empty, Charlotte knelt down to look him in the eye.

"I will not let you go," she said firmly, looking at him, "until you give me back my change purse." He looked around sheepishly, avoiding her gaze.

"I don' know what you're talking about. I don' have any purse, yours or mine," he protested. Charlotte narrowed her eyes and pulled him a little closer, still kneeling on level with him; their eyes were at the same height.

"That was a clever little trick, I'll admit," she said. "But I've caught you. There is no need for pretense here. Just give it back." He began to struggle again.

"I don' have your stinkin' purse," he wailed. "Just let me go!" She stood up, and pulled on his arm, gently, to calm him down. She sighed dramatically, and made to look down the sidewalk.

"Very well, _gamin_, it seems I've no other option. I will have to call for the police, naturally," she said, eyeing the boy discreetly. He balked at her words.

"The police? Please, Miss, not Javert again, I- I'll do anything," he wailed. Charlotte smiled, turning towards the boy again.

"I suppose I could make an exception, just this once," she said to him, slowly. He smiled sweetly and tried once again to turn and run, but she held fast.

"Not so quickly, boy, you must wait," she said to him sternly.

"Wait?" he asked. "Wait for what?"

"I promise not to report you to the police if you promise to take me out to lunch," she proposed, giving what he decided was a suspicious smile.

"Lunch?" he asked, aghast. "Lunch?" he repeated. She frowned and gave him a look.

"Yes, lunch," she said, then lifted her nose a sniffed. "How else do you propose to treat a Lady?"

"But I don' have any –" he started, but she raised an eyebrow at him, and he broke off.

"You have money right there, sitting in your pocket," she said, for she had spotted the string of her purse peeking out from the pocket of his coat. "If, of course, it isn't mine," she said off handedly. He blushed.

"I suppose lunch is not so poor an option," he said, and shrugged casually. Charlotte laughed.

"My boy, it is your only option," she said to him, and began to lead him off in the direction of what she hoped was a café. She could smell bread baking, if only she could locate the source…

"Gavroche," he said suddenly. She looked at him strangely.

"Pardon me?" she said.

"Gavroche. My name is Gavroche," he stood up taller in his pride. She suspected it was for show.

"Very well, monsieur Gavroche," she paused her stride to turn towards him. "My name is Charlotte, Charlotte Gray," she said and gave him a little curtsey.

"Charlotte? I know you!" he exclaimed.

"You do?" she frowned at him.

"Sure. Courfeyrac talked about you once. Or said your name or something, I don' remember," he shrugged at her.

"Ah, I understand. I do know monsieur Courfeyrac, although I was unaware that he knew you," she started walking again but raised an eyebrow at him, encouraging him to explain.

"We're mates, him and me," Gavroche said. "He looks out for me, I look out for him," he offered. Charlotte was certainly curious about their relationship, particularly if Courfeyrac was somehow this boy's guardian. Before she could broach the subject, however, she spotted a café down the street and nearly gasped in relief.

"Come on," she said, laughing, and pulled Gavroche along side her, quite un-lady like.

Inside the little restaurant she and Gavroche talked, mostly because she was genuinely curious about his past and his circumstances. He was quite bright, even with little education, and opened up to her as the meal went on. He talked about where he lived. (In an elephant, apparently? Charlotte had little clue as to what he was talking about, but didn't press it). When she asked him if he had parents, he said that he did, as well as two sisters.

"But you don't live with them?" Charlotte asked, concerned. He merely shrugged.

"I… do my own thing, I guess," he said. "I visit them every so often, though. I just don' need to sleep next to them every night, is all." Charlotte suspected it was for other reasons, perhaps some the boy was unaware of. She tried to smile.

"That's alright," she said to him. "I don't live with my parents either."

"Do you miss them?" he asked her unexpectedly. She looked flustered for a moment.

"I- I suppose I do," she tried to explain. "They don't live in Paris. They live in England, but I had to leave."

"Why?"

"I wasn't happy," she said. "Sometimes you have to leave the people you love if you want to be happy yourself."

"I suppose we're not so different, then, you and me," Gavroche said.

"Yes, I suppose were not," she said with a sad smile, but brightened as a server approached. "Now, a gentleman will pay the bill for the meal. There's the waiter now."

Gavroche quite proudly put the francs in the astonished waiter's hands, but then turned sheepishly towards Charlotte. He wordlessly handed her the change purse, and looked at his lap.

"Thank you, Gavroche," she said sincerely. "That was very honorable."

She led him back out onto the street, and knelt down to look at him. She held out the change purse. He looked at it skeptically.

"What's this?" he asked.

"You may have it," Charlotte said. "You've earned it."

"How?"

"Well, it was nice to have lunch with such fine company, and you're a damn good thief to boot. Here, take it," she pushed the purse into his small hands.

"What's the catch? Are you going to ship me off the some orphanage? Try to change me?" he asked, suddenly angry. She looked astonished.

"Gavroche, believe me when I say that I don't want to change you. I know first hand how that feels, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. You are free to make your own decisions, and I only hope I can do a little to make things easier," she tried to explain. "Please take the money," she pressed. He eyed her for a moment before giving her a grin.

"You don' have to tell me twice," he said and took the purse. She laughed at him, and stood up.

"You cheeky little –"

"Gavroche! You're alive!" someone cut her off, and the group of _gamins_ that had run off earlier were back for their fallen comrade. Gavroche looked at her questioningly. She smiled and nodded at him. He too smiled, and began to run off.

"I'll get you for this, _gamin_!" she shouted suddenly, making Gavroche laugh but the other children squeal in fright. "That's right, run!" she added.

She quickly lost sight of them as they darted between the legs of the bourgeoisie strolling down the street.

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**A/N: [inserts filler chapter] [gets ready for next chapter] [cause holy shit]**

**-C**

**p.s. shit! i forgot this earlier, but strukkfirst suggested this for this chapter, and it was awesome and i love them thanks that's all folks**


	13. Chapter 13

**Yo i do not own Les Miserable. Im not the bad bitch Hugo. This chapter is a little racy, so be warned...**

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It was a Wednesday of the next week that Charlotte decided to grace the students with her presence at their next meeting. In all honesty, she had been avoiding Enjolras at the expense of her friends, and she had a desire to see them again. Plus, she wanted word on whether the new pamphlets had been printed. The young revolutionaries no doubt had rallies and speeches planned till next May, and were likely eager to get the ball rolling.

Grantaire took her to lunch the other day, so at least she had been able to see him. He brought her to a little hole in the wall restaurant that served divine food, which was pleasantly surprising. He was good at things like that, finding the best cafés or the best place to get brioche or some odd quirk like that. He knew the city like the back of his hand. They talked, she ordered 3 meals in ecstasy, and he drank wine. Such was the nature of their newfound friendship. It was his negotiations that convinced her to go to the meetings again. She couldn't avoid Enjolras forever, so why put it off? She had grudgingly agreed, and was on her way to the Musain now.

Charlotte walked through the building to get to the hall, but realized she was a little late. Enjolras was already at the helm, giving a passionate speech about connecting to the poor. The boys were riled up and anxious, and hardly noticed her as she slipped in at the back.

"Combeferre printed the new set of pamphlets as well, so you should all thank Mademoiselle Charlotte for her hard work," Enjorlas said, and nodded at her from the front of the room. Apparently he had noticed her entrance where others had not, and Charlotte blushed when the students turned to look at her. The drunker ones cheered or called out, but most just smiled, for which she was grateful.

"Alright, I suppose that is all," Enjorlas proclaimed, and let loose the hounds of wine and good spirits onto the revolutionaries. The piano picked up, she guessed it was Feuilly playing, and Jean Prouvaire swept her into a dance, making her laugh. They did a lively little number, others joining in, as it had become a favorite pastime of theirs when Charlotte was around. Courfeyrac took her in his arms dramatically, even giving her a little dip, which made her shriek when he threatened to drop her.

"Will you have some wine, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"No, you knave!" she exclaimed, and then laughed. "No more wine! I have a deadline tomorrow that I am," she gasped, "no where near completing!"

"A deadline? But Enjorlas said –" he looked confused.

"A deadline for the newspaper? That I write for? Come, Courfeyrac, you must remember!" she teased.

"Oh right," he pouted. "Your other, less important job." She laughed.

"I actually should to go, for it's getting late, and I have a long night ahead of me," she said, and groaned. He did so as well, but set her right on her feet, and daintily kissed her hand.

"Then farewell, wench, and do not spend so long away from us next time. It is such a bore with out you, and we are convinced Enjorlas is nicer when you are here. At least he lets us dance!" Courfeyrac smiled and shrugged, and sauntered off into the crowd of men. Charlotte smiled herself, and shook her head at his receding back.

She headed for the door, but felt a hand on her arm. She looked up, surprised, and saw Enjolras looking down at her. God only knows where he had disappeared to, but he sought her out the moment she was alone. Now she was forced to speak with him.

"I wanted to talk to you," was all he said. Charlotte sighed in defeat.

"Thank you for working on the pamphlets. They are without flaw and exceeded my expectations," he said. Charlotte looked confused.

"Oh, um, you're welcome. I, uh, thank you!" she stammered out, and tried to make for the door.

"Charlotte, I owe you an apology," he said suddenly, and she grimaced but turned back towards him.

"I am sorry for the way I acted the other day. It was harsh and unnecessary. I truly enjoyed spending time with you, and I had no intention of making it seem like I- but then you- " he stammered himself, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

"Enjolras," she said, cutting him off. She closed her eyes briefly. _Stay strong, Charlotte. _She looked at him again and smiled. "Enjorlas, please, there is no need to explain yourself. It was no doubt a surprise when I kissed you," he flinched and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. "But there is no need to worry. It was a whim," her heart broke a little. "It meant nothing."

He nodded at this, but didn't say anything. He almost looked unhappy, but she didn't dwell on it.

"Now, is there anything else you needed?" she asked as she moved towards the door again.

"Yes!" he exclaimed. She turned back in surprise. He noticed that a small curl had escaped from its confines, and Enjorlas had the oddest urge to raise a hand and put it back in place. He blinked, and the feeling left.

"Uh, no, I- I meant no," he said. She frowned at him, but nodded.

"Until next time, then," she said, and opened the door.

"Yes, until then," he responded, and when the door closed he almost wished she hadn't left.

The next morning Charlotte nearly sprinted to her editor in order to deliver her column on time. He was certainly displeased, to which she gave profuse apologies, but she received her salary regardless. It was a small victory, and she pocketed the francs after leaving his office. She felt, after completing nearly the entire column in one night, that she deserved a small treat, perhaps a pastry or some sweet fruit. The late spring strawberries would be perfect, if she could find some. In order to do that, however, she would have to venture to the large market near the center of the city. It was only mid morning, so Charlotte decided to make the trek across town.

The market was busy and bustling, full of shop owners and Parisians who strolled through stalls offering fruit, vegetables, freshly baked breads, and slabs of meat on ice. It was wholly overwhelming, and it took some enjoyable moments of exploring to find what she wanted. She saw the strawberries, but suddenly heard someone call from somewhere in the market.

"Charlotte! Charlotte Gray! Is that you?" a feminine voice rang out. Charlotte looked around wildly, wondering who could possibly be looking for her, and her stomach dropped. Through the crowd emerged a young woman, willowy in frame, with pale blonde hair and large green eyes. She was wearing an expensively cut dress, and Charlotte's jaw dropped when she saw her, and recognized her.

"Isobel?" she asked, incredulous. "That cannot possibly be you!" Charlotte was at once shocked, pleased, and silently relieved.

Although Charlotte never had friends as a young child, and gained very few as she grew up, she had met one girl, Isobel, that she adored at the convent in France. She and Isobel became inseparable, and the willowy blonde gave Charlotte at least a glimpse of what companionship was like. However, she left a year before Charlotte had, so they hadn't seen each other in nearly three years. They stared at each other for a moment before throwing themselves in the other's arms, speaking at once.

"It is so good to see you!"

"When you left, I thought I'd never –"

"I missed you so much,"

"But you seem just the same –"

"But why on earth are you in Paris?" Isobel's last question drew Charlotte up short. "I thought you were heading back home after school, perhaps you had gotten married," Isobel continued. Charlotte frowned a bit, and shrugged.

"No. No, I uh, I didn't get married," she tried to explain, and paused for a moment. She was unsure of what to say, because as much as she loved Isobel, Charlotte didn't want to reveal too much information and have her parents discover her location. "I wanted to travel," she said finally. "I loved France so much, it just made sense to come to Paris."

"_Que magnifique_," Isobel responded warmly. "Oh, I just missed you so much!" she practically squealed, and gripped Charlotte's hand.

"I know," Charlotte said. "Won't you go to lunch with me? We can catch up, tell stories, if you would like," she pleaded. Isobel's face fell.

"I can't. I have to meet my Aunt, she lives here, you know, for tea," She responded, wrinkling her nose. "It will be dreadful, but I will never hear the end of it if I do not go." She thought for a moment, but her face lit up once again. "I am free for dinner! You must show me a place to eat," she pouted prettily, " and treat a lady right. I am only in town for tonight. I leave tomorrow morning. Oh, please say yes," the girl said, distraught."

"Of course!" Charlotte answered immediately. "That sounds perfect. Let me write down my address for you, and we can meet before." Charlotte did so, and pressed the paper into Isobel's hand, before embracing her, and watched her depart. She forgot completely about purchasing the strawberries.

The portress screamed at Charlotte at a half past six to come down, that there was a young lady calling on her, and to hurry up. Before going downstairs, Charlotte examined her reflection in a looking glass. She had chosen a deep navy gown, with a baring décolletage, in French style, but the fabric looked pretty against her skin. She imagined it would look nice with the cream and pale yellow gown that Isobel had on earlier, and she whisked down the stairs. She saw Isobel near the door and gave her a warm hug before taking her hand and drawing her out to the street where Isobel had hired a fiacre. Grantaire, the other day, had given her a long list of good places to eat, and Charlotte had one in mind for the night. It was rather formal, which made Charlotte question Grantaire's history with the establishment, but the two women sat down nonetheless.

"So why are _you_ in Paris?" Charlotte asked Isobel. "When you left the convent, you were heading back to your parents in the North."

"I did, originally. But then, I, well, I got married!" Isobel exclaimed. "Do you remember William Palmer? Or, do you remember me talking about him?" Charlotte blushed profusely.

"How could I forget?" she mumbled. "You told me over and over the story of your little romp in the –"

"Shh!" Isobel interrupted her. "We don't need to talk about it again" she squeaked. "Anyway, her proposed in May and we were wed last August. We've moved to London, but Will needed to visit his brother, who lives here in Paris. He dragged me along, naturally, and here I am." The two shared a laugh, and a thought popped into Charlotte's head.

"What luck that we saw each other then. I had no idea where you had ended up, and then I hadn't really told anyone I was in Paris –" Charlotte broke off, looking at Isobel.

"Oh, but I knew you were here in Paris. I've known since I got here!" Isobel said nonchalantly.

"Wait, you did?" Charlotte frowned. "How? No one knows that I am here," she said, before realizing what the connotation of her words meant. Isobel didn't notice apparently, but reached down to pull out a folded piece of paper from her purse.

"Will's brother had this. I saw your name and recognized it immediately. You were always scribbling away in your notebook at school, so it is good that you have done something with your talent, but this is a bit far left, I must admit," Isobel rambled on, but Charlotte didn't say anything.

She stared at the paper in Isobel's hand, and recognized her own words. But they were not her weekly column. They were instead a copy of the pamphlets she had written for Les Amis de l'ABC, and her name was brazenly printed as the author. Panic set in as Charlotte realized what could happen. If Isobel had had access to, read, and recognized her name from this pamphlet so easily, then how long would it be before her father saw it, or at least heard about it? She saw the life she had built for herself crumble before her eyes, and a slow anger began to build up inside of her. Isobel noticed.

"Charlotte, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you. I think your writing is quite good. Are you feeling alright?" she asked. Charlotte, tried to smile, and nodded.

"Yes, I'm sorry, I feel fine," she answered, and tried to stay calm for the remainder of the meal. When the two women were done eating they meandered back out to the dark Paris street. Isobel turned to Charlotte and took her hand.

"I'm so glad I got to see you again. This was perfect," she said.

"I know, and I wish you could stay in the city longer," Charlotte said. "But you will tell me the next time you are in town, right?"

"Of course!" Isobel urged, and leaned forward to throw her arms around her friend. Charlotte put her own arms around Isobel's shoulders and they stood for a moment. Finally, Isobel stepped away, and looked down the street towards to fiacre.

"Shall we drive you back to your apartment?" she asked. Charlotte looked away and narrowed her eyes slightly.

"No, thank you. I actually need to do something before I return, so I fear that we must say good bye now," she said, giving Isobel a small smile.

The two embraced one final time, and Charlotte watched Isobel enter the carriage and drive away. When the fiacre was out of sight, she took off down the street. It was absolutely necessary to fix the problem at hand, and it was eating away at her. She was so close to being successful and happy, and she wasn't about to have her name ruin it all. She had to find a way to recall the printed pamphlets, or ensure that her name was removed from future ones, and as quickly as possible. Already she feared what would happen if, or when, her editor saw what she had written. Would she lose her job? Would he take any more of her articles? She picked up her pace, heading unconsciously to Enjolras' apartment before she even realized it. It began to rain at some point, but Charlotte continued blindly down some path that she had memorized with out intention.

She saw Enjolras' building loom out of the darkness, and Charlotte realized where her path had taken her. She chastised herself for being so willing to seek him out, but grudgingly admitted to herself that he was likely the best person to fix her problem. She was still angry, and worried, because of what this mistake might mean for her, and she was more than willing to place the blame on him. She wiped the wet hair out of her eyes, hiked up her heavy skirts, and knocked on the door. The porter answered it, frowned at her, but wordlessly let her in, pointing up the stairs to Enjorlas' apartment. She thanked him, and marched up.

She slammed the palm of her hand against the door, and called his name, hoping he was in. She eventually heard footsteps behind the door, but continued knocking until she heard the latch click. The door was thrown open, and Enjolras stood there, annoyed.

"What? Who is it?" he snapped. "Charlotte?" he said when he recognized her breathing heavily on the landing.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" she fumed, brushing past him to walk into his apartment, dripping rainwater on the floor.

"No?" he said after her, confused. Charlotte snatched up a piece of paper from his table and waved it around.

"This!" she shouted. "This is what you've done. You've printed my name in these pamphlets. This could ruin everything!" she shrieked, the full front of her anger rising to the surface. "Everything I've worked for, gone! Like that!" She snapped her fingers and threw the pamphlet at him. Enjolras continued to look confused and bent down to retrieve the fallen paper.

"Charlotte, please, calm down. I don't understand. I printed your name because you deserved credit for your work. I thought that was what you wanted." He tried to explain.

"No, that was the last thing I wanted! I never asked to have my name put all over you little pamphlets, and now –" she broke off and began pacing around the room. "Why did you think I use a pseudonym when I write for the _journal_?" she shouted at him. "Because I want to cross dress as a man?!"

"What? No! I, I assumed it was because you had to –" Enjolras started, but Charlotte cut him off.

"I had to, because I didn't want anyone to find me!" she yelled. "No one was to know that I am here, in Paris!"

"What? What are you talking about? You have never talked about this before. You haven't told anyone about your past, Charlotte," he said, his own voice getting louder.

"Of course I haven't!" her voice raised an octave. "It was meant to be a secret!" she shrieked, moving towards him. "And now everything could fall apart, because my name is scattered around Paris, on controversial political pamphlets, for everyone to read and talk about!"

Enjolras seemed to grasp why Charlotte was upset, because his eyes widened and he raised his hands in surrender.

"I apologize, Charlotte," he urged, "but I had no idea."

"Of course you had no idea," she snarled at him. "You don't pay attention to other people, and you care for nothing but yourself and your precious revolution," she spat. He narrowed his eyes at her insult.

"Yes, of course," he said slowly, circling her. "But this wouldn't have anything to do with what happened the other day, would it?" he asked. Charlotte gaped at him, absolutely livid.

"How dare you?" she yelled. "Of course not. But you know what, so what if it does? You hurt me that day." She turned back towards him and stepped close. "You hurt me, and you are a heartless, careless, cruel person." She suddenly pushed him, shoving his chest. He looked down, shocked at her display of violence, and his eyes were dark.

"Why are you so mad at me?" he shouted. "I was only honest with you!"

She didn't answer, and continued to push him, and strike against his shoulders and arms. He stepped back, trying to avoid her flailing limbs and small fists as she began to shout again.

"You dark hearted, inconsiderate, mean, callous," she heaved a breath to continue to berating him, verbally and physically. "Cold, unfeeling, despicable, pitiless son of a –" Enjolras had been watching and taking her beating, before he suddenly caught her wrists to stop the attack. With out warning, and on some foreign instinct, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. Whether it was to stem the flow of insults, to prove her wrong, or because something made Enjolras notice, for the first time, how large Charlotte's eyes were and the way her chest heaved with her labored breathing, he stood there and kissed her.

He pulled away after a second, shocked, and looked at her; her captured wrists were limp in his large hands, and she was staring at him with wide eyes. His eyes flicked over her, taking in her wet hair, her heart shaped face, her eyes, her body, and a dull heat pooled in his gut. His eyes settled on her mouth, and he consciously stepped closer before releasing her wrists to touch her face and pull her to him once again.

This time he deepened the kiss, and Charlotte whimpered when his tongue grazed hers. Her hand crept up to his neck, and she curled her fingers into his hair as they kissed. She let her desire control her actions, and their emotions were still tense and passionate. He pushed her up against a wall, and she gasped when he kissed her jaw and nipped at her neck. Almost frantically she clawed at his shirt and tried to free it from his waistline. With his help, she pulled it over his head to reveal his broad shoulders, flat stomach and narrow waist; he captured her mouth once again.

It took some maneuvering, but between Charlotte and Enjorlas, the lacings of her dress came undone, and the wet fabric was cast off. He began to remove the rest of his clothing, but something made him doubt himself.

"Charlotte, what are we doing?" he groaned. "This isn't righ –" he tried to say, but stopped when he saw her standing there without any dress on. The heat flared up again inside of him and he took a few steps forward to kiss her once more. She helped him shed his other clothes, and they tumbled to the carpet in front of the fire.

A while later, Charlotte had fallen asleep on his chest, but Enjorlas eased her to the carpet that covered the floor. He stood up and added more wood to the fire. The rain had made the night unusually cool, for April, and he hoped Charlotte's dress would dry out. He walked to the bed, grabbed a blanket, and returned to the sleeping girl. Silently, he knelt back down himself. He cast the blanket over them, and awkwardly curled himself around her, with his chest pressed against her back. He was unsure of why he did that, and was about to move when she sighed and nestled closer at his touch. He slipped an arm over her waist and pulled the blanket up, intending to watch her in sleep, but he drifted off before even realizing it.

* * *

**A/N: ! (i don't know what else to say)**

**So this escalated really quickly, but you know what, yolo. party like it's 1832. get freaky. whatever. **

**-C**


	14. Chapter 14

**I do not own les misérables. I would be super rich if i did...**

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Enjolras awoke feeling utterly happy, almost indescribably happy. Sun streamed in through the window, and warmed his back, and his mind was uncommonly empty, so he was able to just lay and breathe for a moment. But a noise startled him, and he look up, from his place on the floor, and saw Charlotte attempting to make tea from over near the stove. He looked at her and the night before came rushing back to him. His instinct told him to feel regret, or shame, but he did not. Instead, he still felt this surreal pleasantry, and it worried him. Her back was in view, so he stood and stepped into his pants, but couldn't find his shirt, although he wasn't really sure where he had left it. He pawed through the blanket, but when he heard a cough he looked up to see Charlotte smirking at him. It was then that Enjolras noticed her wearing his white shirt. It went down to her knees, practically, but he was still shocked to see her legs peeking out from beneath. He blushed.

"Sorry," she smiled. "My dress was still drying. Tea will be ready in a moment, if you would like some," she said and turned back away. Her eyes flickered briefly to his chest before moving towards the kettle.

Hearing Charlotte speak, and seeing her move finally made Enjorlas realize what had happened. The two of them had been together, while they were not married, and this was bad. Very bad. Or at least, it should be. He highly doubted Charlotte fancied the idea of being someone's mistress, and he had no intention of entertaining one. Hadn't he never even noticed women before? Before what? Before Charlotte, he thought to himself. He snuck a side-glance at her. She had been hunting for cups, but something had distracted her from outside the window, and she now stood silhouetted against the sun. She really is beautiful, he nearly said out loud.

Enjolras sat down in one of the chairs. He was so confused. He had never had feelings for a woman, so there was no precedent for this situation. Did he even have feelings for Charlotte? Something in him had snapped the night before, and it was as if all the emotion he typically suppressed released itself all at once. He had been thoroughly caught up in the passion of it all, of her, and he had honestly surprised himself. Admittedly, since she had kissed him that day, he often found himself thinking about her. She would enter his mind randomly, making him envision her smile or the way she rolled her eyes when she was exasperated. He especially enjoyed watching her dance, but he had no idea what all of that meant. He rubbed his face and groaned a bit from the frustration.

"Enjorlas?" Charlotte said suddenly. "Are you all right?" she moved near him, concerned.

"What?" he lifted his head and looked around. "Oh, yes, I am fine, it's just," he paused, and looked at her. "Charlotte, what did we do?" he said with wide eyes.

"Oh," she responded, and dropped slowly into the chair beside him. She looked sad. "You must regret it," she murmured softly. "You must regret me."

"I –"

"You see, I don't," she continued. "I don't regret it at all."

"Are you sure about that?" he asked her bluntly. Her eyes flashed.

"Yes," she said. "As much as I wish it other wise, and as much as I tell myself it isn't so, I care for you." She waited for him so say something, but he did not. She looked like she might cry, which caused him a surprising amount of pain.

"But, I suppose, you do not care for me," she continued, and sounded hurt. "But regardless, I rather enjoyed myself last night, and there is nothing to be ashamed of," she said, and lifted her nose. "If it all meant nothing to you, then at least I had a good time." Enjolras supposed Charlotte was trying to put on a brave face, and he wanted to somehow explain his inner turmoil.

"Charlotte, please, try to understand," he said, and even scooted forward a bit in his chair. "I - I have never been with a woman before. I don't know what these feelings are, and I don't know how to react. I'm not intending to hurt you," he tried to explain.

"It is not a punishment to feel, Enjorlas. You would do well to remember that," she chastised gently.

"What if it isn't my nature to feel?" he asked quietly, looking down. "And what about you? What happens when you wish you marry?" he asked her. She frowned.

"What if I don't want to marry? What if I remain a free woman for the rest of my life?" she asked in return. "Perhaps it is not my nature," she mocked, and he laughed.

"That honestly wouldn't surprise me," he said. She waited for him to say something more, but he was consumed once more by his thoughts. She gave a small sigh and stood up, walking over to the fire where her dress was laid out. She looked at him, and raised her eyebrow until her turned away. He sat staring at the wall while she changed, very tempted to turn and look, which embarrassed him, so he tried to focus on a small crack in the plaster. After a moment, though, she cleared her throat.

"Will you help me with the lacings?" she called out. He looked at her, surprised, but came at her command. She presented her back, and with deft fingers he tied the lacings snugly. The action was surprisingly comfortable, and suddenly he was leaning in close.

"I want you to know that, contrary to your belief, I find myself not regretting our union last night," he breathed into her ear. She turned around and looked at him with wonder.

"Will you come to the meeting tonight?" he asked her quietly. She stepped back from him and gave a shaky breath.

"I suppose I can. If you're sure it's alright," she responded.

"Of course. Although, I am not sure the other students should know about, well, us," Enjolras said, intending to preserve her modesty. She, however, interpreted it differently, and narrowed her eyes at him

"Oh, of course. You wouldn't want anyone finding out about this," she said. Enjolras grimaced, and tried to find the right words to ease her distress. Charlotte ended up just moving awkwardly toward the door, and rested her hand on the doorknob.

"I suppose we will see each other tonight," she mumbled out.

"Charlotte, wait," he finally got out. "I want to fix the pamphlets. I don't know if there is much we can do about the one's already given to the public, but your name will never be printed in one again. But maybe, sometime, you would like to tell me why it concerns you so much?" he said in a rush before she could walk out.

"Maybe," she murmured. "But thank you," she said before turning and fleeing out the door. Enjolras groaned and berated himself for being such a fool.

Sometime after she left, he knew he had to focus before the meeting, in addition to studying. His law books were stacked together on the table and demanded his attention, so he forced himself to work. He leafed through the books and began an essay, but he constantly found his mind wandering. He could hear Charlotte's laugh, picture her smile, or taste her skin, which brought back memories from the night before that were certainly distracting. He shook his head, and knew he needed to take a walk, to clear his mind, or he would never be free of her.

He stayed out most of the day, and practically felt like Marius, who was known for his senseless wanderings through Paris. Marius was a strange one, and Enjolras was not inclined to compare himself the hopeless Buonapartist, so he rolled his eyes and began to make his way to the Musain, recognizing a wasted day when he saw one.

He walked in, and saw many of his friends and fellow revolutionaries sitting and talking, and his eyes immediately fell on the source of his woes, who apparently had gotten to the meeting on time for once. She had changed her dress, and her hair was coiffed, and it was all he could do to not stare. She sat between Bahorel and Grantaire, the latter of which was already drunk. Bahorel appeared to be explaining a story or happenings, because he gestured once or twice to his split knuckles and made a mock punching motion. She laughed and patted his arm in exaggerated sympathy. She suddenly looked up and caught him staring. She blushed, he blushed, and they both looked away quickly; he went to shuffle through his papers.

The meeting that night consisted of stamping posters, proofreading pamphlets, and preparing for various rallies in the coming weeks. Enjolras took it upon himself to wander among the various tables to encourage, and ensure, that the proper work was being done. He looked at the stamp printing press, which happened to be handled by Charlotte, and frowned at the products.

"Charlotte, if you don't mind, place the paper here so that the margins look like this," he said, leaning over her shoulder and showing her how he wanted them to look. She coughed a bit.

"Um, Enjolras," she choked out, and he realized how close he had gotten to her, their heads practically touching. He had also managed to slip an arm over her shoulder and another practically around her waist to demonstrate the stamp. A workingman sat across from the pair and stamped away awkwardly, looking down.

"Yes, well," he straightened, " you should at least do it right. Continue," he said stiffly and walked away, seeking distraction from her. He looked back briefly and saw her frowning at him; he scowled and moved away. He busied himself with various other tasks and tried to clear the color that flushed his face. He usually was so single minded and on track at meetings; the vision of the future was so clear in his mind it was like looking upon a scene through a window. Suddenly, though, Charlotte had muddied up the glass and it was a constant battle to see through. He determinedly worked through the night, and spoke very little to anyone, and eventually she left his mind due to the monotony of the tasks at hand.

The men began to file out of the café at the end of the meeting, and Enjorlas saw them out, intending to read a few more newspaper articles before retiring. Combeferre clapped him on the shoulder and Courfeyrac made to lean in and kiss him on the cheek. Enjorlas shoved him away but smiled, and the guide and center walked out. Enjolras turned to look at the empty hall, but found it was not empty. Charlotte alone sat at a table, furiously sewing cockades out of red, white, and blue fabric strips. Enjolras looked at her and frowned, wondering why she was still working when he struggled to get his friends and fellow students to do the same. He was still lost in thought, staring, when she looked up and finally noticed him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I hadn't realized everyone had left," she explained, and held up the bit of fabric in her hand. "I'm almost done with this one, so I'll just leave then. What's wrong?" she said when she saw his furrowed brow.

"You," he said.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You're everywhere. I can't get away from you. You even stay late," he said, and began to walk to walk towards her from the door. Charlotte narrowed her eyes and put down the fabric.

"I'm sorry?" she questioned.

"You're distracting," he said.

"Distracting…" she repeated, clearly looking for an explanation. Enjolras blushed.

"Well, yes, you're distracting. Seeing you here, seeing you anywhere. It is as if something has shifted. I can't focus," he tried to explain. "I can't help remembering –" he broke off, and blushed a deeper shade of red. Charlotte sighed, and stood up.

"Enjorlas, whatever last night was, it happened. Nothing is going to change that. And nothing is going to change the fact that, thanks to you, I am involved in this group," she said, losing her patience with the man before her. "I suggest you come to terms with this fact, and come to terms with your feelings, whatever they might be," she snapped, and brushed past him to head towards the door.

Enjolras waited until she had passed him before he smiled a bit and rolled his eyes. He debated what to do but ultimately went with his gut instinct and called out "Charlotte, wait," just as she reached the door. She turned and stood with a hand on her hip, so he walked forwards until he stood directly in front of her.

"I'm trying," he whispered, and reached out to cup her face, lean forward, and kiss her on the mouth. Charlotte stiffened at first, but relaxed into the contact and let her hands rest on his chest. Enjolras stepped closer still and deepened the kiss, even letting his teeth graze her lower lip. She groaned a bit, and suddenly leaned back, breaking the connection. She searched his face, her eyes roaming from his mouth to his eyes.

"You," she took a breath, "are infuriatingly confusing," she said before throwing her arms around his neck to kiss him once again.

* * *

**A/N: kind of a filler chapter, but can you just imagine the awkwardness... i can, cause i wrote it, but still... awkward. More charlotteXenjolras on the way, i promise. **

**-C**


	15. Chapter 15

**I do not own Les Mis. If i did, i would be publishing real books or something...**

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Nearly a week had passed since Charlotte's night with Enjolras, and April had given way to May. The weather was beginning to warm, and she itched to spend time outside, but she was currently working, writing pamphlets in the Musain. Her first round was a success, and Enjolras was eager for her to produce more. However, until now she had been unable to fulfill his request, as caught up as she had been with her newspaper articles. As a result she was stuck for hours catching up. To make sure she continued to work, Enjolras stayed as well. Perhaps he was reading, or studying, she couldn't really tell. Charlotte glared at him, a few tables away, but he was engrossed in whatever he was doing.

It was strange to her, because since that night in the café, he had not kissed her. He stopped any advances, which she would have welcomed, and offered no more explanation to ease her worries. She had assumed that it was because he still regretted seeing her, and thus wished to distance himself, but the opposite seemed to be happening. While he didn't try to kiss her, he was still _there_ all the time. He would wait for her at the end of meetings, and stand near her during them. He often would watch her, continuing even if she caught him staring, and did so unabashedly. When he had something to ask of her, he would come up and sometimes place his hand on the small of her back, which sent little shivers up her spine and left goosebumps. But through all of this he never again tried to kiss her, which left her frustrated. Even now, as he was forcing her to finish the pamphlets, she would have liked to walk up and kiss the little crease between his brows that wrinkled up when he concentrated.

She had been working for nearly two hours, her hand was beginning to ache, and she was restless. It was unlikely that Enjolras would let her leave, but if she could just convince him to come with her, than perhaps she could seek out a respite from the monotonous task at hand.

She let out a strategic sigh, loud enough for him to hear. Charlotte waited, looking at Enjolras' back, but he didn't move. She tried again, adding a little groan at the end. His shoulders tensed up, but he continued working. She narrowed her eyes.

"Oh for the love of God!" she exclaimed. He jumped a little, and finally turned around.

"What? What is wrong?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," she waited. "Actually, I was just thinking that it was nearly time for a break."

"But you aren't finished," he said skeptically. She frowned.

"No… but we have both been working for the same amount of time, perhaps we could both use a break. Why don't we go for a walk?" she tried.

"A walk…"

"Yes, a walk. I haven't been to the gardens in quite a while. Why don't we go and walk around for a bit?" She made a point of pushing away the parchment in front of her and standing up. He looked unconvinced.

"Please?" she added for good measure. He continued to frown at her for a moment, but finally relented.

"I suppose a walk would not be entirely detrimental," he said and stood up, closing a book

The pair walked out into the sunshine, and Enjolras even offered her his arm, which she took. He secretly remembered the walks they used to take, right after she had agreed to write the pamphlets. He hadn't realized how much he had missed them until Charlotte was once again on his arm. They strolled through Paris, and he led her to the Luxembourg gardens, pointing out little bits of historical information about the streets they were passing along the way.

The day was unusually warm. It had drawn out the city's residents, who all appeared to be out and about, and thus the gardens were busy. Charlotte and Enjolras walked along in a comfortable silence. She would close her eyes for short stretches, when the sun struck her directly, and allow it to soak into her skin. She unconsciously gripped Enjolras' arm more firmly in her temporary blindness, so he had a way of knowing when she would stop looking. He could stare at her then, with the sun on her face, and she would never know. He also enjoyed, just slightly, the way she depended on him to guide her, if only for a few moments, until she would open her eyes once more and step away.

"How long have you been in the city?" she asked after a bit.

"What?" he asked, taken off guard. They were passing near a fountain, so Charlotte thought he hadn't heard her.

"How long have you been in the city? In Paris?" she said louder, nearly shouting.

"No, no, I heard you, I was just surprised. But, I came to the city 2 years ago, to study at the University," he said.

"Oh, I had nearly thought you were raised here. You're so attached," Charlotte tried to explain.

"No. I was born in the South of France, near the coast. I didn't travel until it was time to attend university, but by then I was ready to leave."

"Why?"

Enjolras stopped walking and looked out across the gardens. He seemed to be thinking, and Charlotte, unsure of what to do, waited by his side. Finally, after nearly a minute, he answered.

"My family and I disagreed on far too much. Politics, government, my career. I was a lot to handle. My parents and I both agreed it was better that I left," he said darkly. Charlotte suspected there was more than what he was letting on, but not being one to talk, she didn't press it.

"I'm sorry," was all she offered.

"Yes, well, I'm not sure if I am," Enjolras said. He almost seemed sad. Charlotte stepped closer to him, and, almost doubting herself, softly rested her head on his shoulder. She looked up at him, wary, afraid he would step away, providing excuses, but for some reason he stayed still. They maintained the gentle contact, and silently watched the other people milling about the gardens. One matronly woman caught Charlotte's eye. She was large and fearsome looking, with a particularly masculine, mean face. She swatted at a child who passed by, and even her husband was clearly giving her a wide berth.

"Enjolras," Charlotte giggled. "Do you suppose that is a man or a woman?" she asked. She lifted her head and nearly laughed out loud at his expression.

"Which person? That one right there? Charlotte, surely you can't be serious?" he asked incredulously.

"No, you're right," she answered very matter-of-factly. "It is quite obviously a man."

Enjolras suddenly laughed out loud, understanding the joke, and continued to laugh. It was the longest she had ever seen him laugh, or smile, and it was dazzling. All she could do was stare, and marvel at how such a handsome face could transform into something even more beautiful when it lit up with laughter. She was transfixed. She struggled to remember to laugh as well.

"You're cruel, truly," he said after calming down, but continued to smile. She thought to herself that she would do anything to see him laugh like that again.

"Come on, let's find a snack or some sort. I do believe I'm hungry," he said and led her off. He was certainly in better spirits.

They walked away from the center of the Garden's, but before leaving, Enjolras heard a distinct voice from nearby. He paused and looked around, and Charlotte waited, confused.

"What are you looking for?"

"I thought I heard something. Or, rather, someone."

"Oh," she said. Then, "Who?" Enjorlas was about to answer when another voice rang, quite clearly, across the courtyard.

"Courfeyrac, stop that!" Charlotte and Enjorlas looked at each other, him frowning and her smiling, and then began to look once more for the source. It was Charlotte who found them, standing near a fountain a little ways away, and the pair walked over. Charlotte caught Enjolras' eye, and then looked briefly at their linked arms. He seemed to understand, because he casually released her arm, and she patted his. Courfeyrac was attempting to adjust the waistcoat of Jean Prouvaire, who had spoken his outrage, when they approached.

"Desist at once! I look fine!" Jehan squealed.

"I'll pretend that was a joke, because this is the ugliest waistcoat I have ever seen. Your eccentrism is wearing on me, and I implore you to allow my assistance. And where did you find this cravat? Was it once a curtain?" Courfeyrac complained, once again trying to fix Jehan's clothing, but his hand was quickly swatted away. Charlotte thought she heard Jehan mumble a "maybe," and she laughed. The two students looked up, and each one smiled.

"Charlotte, love, what a pleasant surprise! And I see you have dragged It out if its hiding place. I commend you," Courfeyrac said, nodding at Enjolras. Charlotte smiled, Enjolras frowned. Courfeyrac looked like he was going to say more, but Jehan quickly cut in.

"Charlotte, you must set Courfeyrac off of me!" he whined, and attempted to flee from Courfeyrac's restless hands.

"Or, you could persuade him that I am only trying to _help_," Courfeyrac said to her.

"But why? He always dresses like… this," Charlotte said, trying to be delicate about Jehan's usual choice of clothing, which always leaned toward the irregular. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.

"Normally I wouldn't waste my time," he said, and Jehan scoffed, "but the stakes are higher today."

"I don't understand."

"Look, dear, across the courtyard. Do you see those two ladies? Today is the day I am going to help Jehan with his troubles with the fairer sex."

"Oh, yes, now I do understand," Charlotte nodded She heard Enjolras make a little exasperated sound, but she elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "But what exactly was your plan?" she asked. Courfeyrac looked doubtfully at Jehan, who was currently looking across the courtyard at the aforementioned ladies and sighing. She didn't doubt that he was composing poetry in the recesses of his mind.

"Hmm, I wasn't really sure. Usually I attempt to make light conversation with women, but with him that might not work. He's so… baroque," Courfeyrac said, frowning at his friend.

"You're right. But I have an idea that just might work," Charlotte mused, forming a plan in her mind.

"Really? I hate to condescend, but would you consider yourself more experienced than I in matter such as these?" Courfeyrac said, sounding condescending nonetheless. Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him.

"Just stay over here," she snapped. "Jehan, if you please, position yourself over there, near the ladies you seem so smitten with, but not close enough to betray your intentions. Then wait for me there," she directed him. He seemed unsure, but scampered off to where she pointed. Enjolras looked doubtful.

"What are you planning to do?" he asked, but Charlotte just smiled.

"Oh, no worries. Just stand here with Courfeyrac," she said, and then set her sights on Jehan.

In truth, she had no real idea of what she was doing, but she had read once, in a sappy romance novel, a trick that a woman played to help a friend, and she intended to employ the same strategy. Jehan was standing within the clear sights of the two ladies, which was perfect. Charlotte marched up to him, and without saying a word planted a kiss right on his lips. He staggered back but she held his shoulders, keeping him in place. This display attracted the attention of the ladies, and they seemed mildly amused at Charlotte's brash action. She finally broke free, and Jehan gasped for breath.

"What was that for-?" he started to ask but Charlotte put a finger to his lips.

"Shh, my love, there isn't any time," she said dramatically, in a loud voice. "My ship leaves within the hour, and I must leave. Alas, we can no longer be together!"

"Oh no?" Jehan said, trying to play along but still not understanding.

"I fear it is the truth!" Charlotte moaned. "But my time with you has been pure joy, ecstasy, and love. And oh the passion!" she swooned, throwing herself against Jehan's chest. The two women were eyeing the pair curiously, looking from the beautiful Charlotte to this eccentric young man, who was apparently her lover. Charlotte had to force herself from smiling, because it would ruin the ruse, but the situation was quite comical. The two ladies began to whisper among themselves, so Charlotte dealt her last card.

"My love, I have but one thing to ask of you," she continued loudly, to ensure that the eavesdroppers could hear.

"Anything," Jehan said.

"Your poems. May I keep them? I fear they are simply too beautiful to part with," she said directing her voice outward. She heard Courfeyrac choke in the background, presumably from laughter. Then she heard the one of the women whisper, "a poet" to the other, and Charlotte knew the game was won.

"My love, it is time for me to leave. But promise me this: you will allow yourself to be happy again once I am gone. I cannot bear the thought of you, here, and all alone. Will you promise?" she pressed closer to him for emphasis, and winked when he caught her eye.

"I promise," Jehan swore, and Charlotte finally tore herself from him, practically prancing away. She fled past Courfeyrac and Enjolras to situate herself behind the fountain, and hoped they would follow. When they did, she hushed them, and directed their attention back across the courtyard. Sure enough, the two women had walked up to Jehan and were talking animatedly with him. One had their hand upon his arm, and the other said something like, "Did I hear you write poetry?" Charlotte looked at Courfeyrac and smiled smugly.

"Don't say a word," he grumbled, and turned to continue watching Jehan.

"How did you know that would work?" Enjolras asked her, amazed. She smiled sheepishly.

"I didn't. I read it in a book once," she admitted, and Enjolras laughed out loud, and she was once again transfixed.

"But you must promise not to tell Courfeyrac," she whispered, giving him a look.

"I promise, I promise," Enjolras said, and the pair turned together to watch Charlotte's handiwork unfold.

A few hours later Enjorlas and some of the other boys were sitting in the Musain. It wasn't technically a meeting, because nothing was getting done, so Enjolras didn't try and push it. Even so the atmosphere felt different, wrong, and he suspected it was the fact that Charlotte wasn't there.

"I'm going back to my apartment," she had said after the trio had watched Jehan stroll away with a companion on each arm. "This weather is not going to hold, and I have already walked home in the rain twice. It is terrible, and I refuse to do it a third time. Today was lovely, and I shall see you tomorrow, presumably," she had said, and then simply walked away.

Enjolras wouldn't admit to himself that he missed her, just that things seemed off with out her there. She was right about the weather, of course. The rain had started shortly after the boys all arrived, and Courfeyrac had smirked at Enjolras. Jehan was currently spewing prose and poetry about the women in the gardens.

"I think I am in love," he sighed. "Nay! I know it is so! Never has beauty been bestowed so completely upon two creatures of God!" he continued and the men in the room rolled their eyes, although they were just slightly pleased that Jehan was so happy. His mood was infectious.

Enjolras sat down to watch the display skeptically. Grantaire also stumbled around the table and situated himself beside him, bottle in hand. Enjolras glanced up briefly but, as usual, dismissed the drunkard's presence. Enjolras had always been skeptical about the reality of love. He never concerned himself with the trivialities of relationships or falling in love. He would have sworn off love completely were it not for the strangest sensation nagging at the back of his brain that made him doubt, not the concept of romantic love, but himself. He was afraid of this sensation, of what it meant.

"So you're in love?" one of the students called out to Jehan.

"I am in love!" he practically sang back.

"What is love," Enjorlas grumbled under his breath.

"You want to know what love is?" Grantaire said suddenly. Enjolras was surprised he had even heard him say anything.

"What do you know of it?" he said in response. Grantaire let out a bitter laugh.

"That's a good question. Probably not much, perhaps less than you, were it possible. But I do know this: Love is simple. It is recognizing someone by their laugh, or the way the sun reflects off of their hair. Love is adoration, and inspiration. It is marking the time from when someone walks into a room to the time they step out, and missing every second that they aren't there. Love is learning to laugh at nothing. Love is learning to laugh at everything. It is physical, but also more than that. Love acts like the ocean, rising at times, and seemingly slipping away at others, but once you have found it, it stays forever. Love is friendship first, and passion second. Loving someone means loving not just them, but the small things they do, the way their voice sounds early in the morning and late at night, and believing that you won't have to be lonely, even for just the sparse minutes you are with them. Love is particularly all encompassing. Love is…" Grantaire's voice trailed off as he searched for the right phrasing.

Enjolras stared at the cynic, in awe. What had started out as a mockery of Enjolras transformed into something else entirely, and he was transfixed. He latched onto the strange sensation he felt earlier and added to it the words of Grantaire, and of course the missing part: Charlotte. Enjorlas could now see clearly what he had been missing for weeks. Everything about Charlotte, the good, the bad, the annoying, every little piece that made up her personality, her charm, her wit, and her affection was something he truly loved. His world would stop for a small second when she entered his field of vision, as he ceased to pay attention to any thing else. He had developed a way of hearing her voice even through the loudest of cacophonies so that he could know where she was. Her intelligence was astonishing, her beauty ravishing, and there was no other word except love to describe what he was feeling.

He also allowed himself, for the first time in quite a while, to remember their night together. He wanted to think that he loved her even then, likely before. And maybe she loved him, a little bit. She indicated as much, but her pride had kept her from revealing all of her feelings. But that night their perhaps mutual love, or at least attraction, had culminated in an act of passion as they lay together on the floor. He instantaneously craved her voice in his ear, whispering his name as her fingers danced over his skin. Remembering her beneath him brought back the pool of heat in his gut, and Enjolras shifted uncomfortably in his seat before coming to the realization that he needed to see her, see Charlotte, and tell her the truth.

This entire thought over in moments, he took a breath and stood up. He turned toward Grantaire, and in a fashion entirely unlike him, he clasped the back of the drunk's neck.

"Grantaire, thank you. For showing me a little bit of truth. Although most likely, you will not remember this through your damned drunken haze," he said before pulling away and heading directly out of the door into the pouring rain.

After he left, Grantaire looked down at the bottle in his hands. It was, in fact, unopened.

Charlotte, after returning to her apartment, had wanted to read a novel, but decided that she had better finish her pamphlets for Enjolras. She had dragged him away from his work today, and it weighed on her conscious, so she forced herself to write. She dressed down to only a chemise, and sat at the table when she heard a knock at the door. Charlotte stood up and warily walked over when another impatient knock rang out. She paused a moment and then reached out and turned the knob, allowing the door to swing open. She nearly shrieked when she saw him there, water dripping from his hair, nearly gasping for breath.

"Charlotte, I think I love you," Enjorlas said.

"W-what?" she sputtered.

"I love you."

"You think?"

"I know." His voiced dropped to a whisper. "I know now that I do. I love you." His eyes dipped down briefly to take in the fact that she wore very little clothing, and it hugged her skin in a way that caused his heart to beat faster. Charlotte stared at him, speechless, unable to form words from the thoughts swirling around in her head.

"Say something," he tried, desperate to hear her voice. She continued to struggle for words, but she couldn't give him a response. So instead, she walked forward and kissed him wildly on the mouth, drawing her hands up to his face; his skin was cold from the rain outside. He kissed her back immediately, bringing her up closer to his chest and they stood like that for a moment, kissing on the threshold, until she took a step back to draw him into the room; he shut the door behind them.

They stayed connected, lips continuously brushing lips, even as Enjolras shed, first his wet waistcoat, and then the shirt underneath. Charlotte's hands roamed over his chest and shoulders, and his breath hitched, just as he leaned forward to kiss her neck. Breathless, she pulled him towards her bed, and the pair fell upon it, forgetting the storm that raged outside.

It was some time later, as they lay contentedly with his chest against her back, did he speak.

"Do you love me?" he asked her quietly. He almost thought she was asleep until she answered.

"Yes. In fact, I think I have been in love with you for quite some time," she admitted. "But I thought you knew that."

"Maybe I did. Maybe I did know it, but I didn't understand what I knew. And maybe I also didn't know that I loved you back"

"But you know now?"

"Yes." He kissed her shoulder, and gave her waist a squeeze from where his arm draped over it. Then, after a moment he sad "But where did you even come from? How do I know so little about you, but you know so much more about me?" She gave a light laugh, but it sounded hollow.

"Well, I am English. I grew up in the country, with my mother and father, and we were a happy little family," she said.

"Hmm, sounds like it," he said, and delicately kissed a scar on Charlotte's shoulder. He had almost forgotten how she got the scar, and others like it. "It sounds as if you aren't too pleased with your childhood."

"I suppose I don't really have much to complain about, my parent's weren't cruel, I just wasn't happy. So I left," she mumbled out.

"You left? You mean you ran away?" Enjolras said, surprised.

"My father wanted me to marry, and leaving was the only way to avoid that," she sounded defensive.

"Do your parents know where you are?"

"No."

"Is that why you were so upset about the pamphlets? Because you don't want them to find you?" he breathed into her ear.

"Yes. If my father found me he would drag me back home immediately. I would never see you again."

"I would die inside," he swore. "But answer me this: How do you know French?"

"Oh, this one is easy. I lived in a French convent for much of my childhood. It is where I received my education. It is one of the reasons that France seemed like a natural place to come when I left England."

"A good thing, too," he spoke into her neck.

"Mmmh," she let out, slowly drifting off. "I enjoy spending time with you, Enjorlas," she mumbled. "Will you ignore me once again in the morning?"

Enjorlas was taken aback by her comment, and felt the guilt return.

"Charlotte, I am so sorry for how I acted. I should have talked to you about it all more, done more. I feel terrible. The night we had together was one of the best I can remember; I was just too lost to realize it. I'm still trying to learn how to deal with all of this and –" he stopped when he heard her make a satisfied little sound, and he hoped she understood what he was trying to say. He curled up closer to her, and she sighed in contentment.

"I love you," he whispered once more, but she was already asleep.

* * *

**A/N: So it has been a really long time since i updated, cause i had spring break and what not, so i made this chapter really long. Hope you liked it, let me know, feedback is ****_always_**** appreciated! **

**-C**

**p.s. the plan is to have this under wraps in 20 chapters, so only 5 more to go!**


	16. Chapter 16

**I do not own Les Mis. I feel like i don't really need to keep saying that but oh well.**

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How quickly time seemed to pass in moments of happiness. Charlotte found her days filled quite naturally with work, writing, and Enjorlas. Her world seemed to shift after that night, when he came to her in such an unprecedented moment of vulnerability. Looking back, it was something so unlike him, so completely out of character that Charlotte almost believed he had never whispered 'I love you' to her. Enjorlas, the man of marble, opened up to her in a way she believed he had never done before. Hearing him say those words, words she had often imagined herself saying to him first, made her happier than she had been in quite a long time. More than that, though, was knowing that he felt about her the same way that she felt about him, because she truly did love him.

But that was almost a month ago. In that time, Charlotte's world had changed completely and yet hadn't changed at all. She still spent a lot of her time writing for the newspaper, which had given her an extra column for the summer months. She also continued to write pamphlets for Les Amis, and attended as many meetings as she could. These aspects of her life were the same. But her relationship with Enjorlas had escalated past her wildest dreams. They decided to keep their correspondence hidden from the rest of the group, and yet the pair spent most evenings together, and the days when they could. He was usually in class during the morning, but in the afternoon Charlotte could sometimes persuade him away from trying to overthrow the government to take a walk or go to lunch. In the evenings, Charlotte was content to simply read a book or write if she could only be in his presence. Of course, on some nights they did other activities. It was nights like these that Charlotte truly wondered how she was lucky enough to lie with someone so… perfect. In her eyes, everything about him was perfect.

Her favorite moments, however, were those when Enjolras simply talked. It was rare for him to open up and reveal things about himself, but Charlotte was usually satisfied just to hear him speak. They could stay awake for hours discussing politics, religion, ethics, and psychology, or they could just talk about which type of weather they liked best. Enjorlas preferred storms. He had given a sly little smile after saying such, so Charlotte suspected he just remembered what happened during them. But in any case, moments such as these reaffirmed for Charlotte the fact that Enjorlas clearly valued her intellect and her aplomb. He oftentimes had difficulty showing her that there were other things he valued about her, though perhaps because in his mind they were less important. But sometimes late at night he would whisper things in her ear, and his fingers would trace over her skin, and she knew.

Throughout their burgeoning relationship, Charlotte could feel a tension growing in the air around her. The city was becoming restless as June loomed closer. The people were reaching their limit, and the pressure was building as to what anyone should do about it. As much as she wished is wasn't so, Charlotte knew that Les Amis would have a heavy hand in whatever was to come, and that meant Enjolras would be at the helm. She was worried that their plan, their revolution, would soon reach its pinnacle, and whatever chaos ensued would only mean death and destruction for the people she had come to love most. Already, more and more rallies erupted in violence as policemen were called in to break up protesters. Enjorlas began sending more and more members of Les Amis out into the city to try and gain supporters. Just the week before, the group received the information that General Lamarque, the people's man, had fallen ill. Enjorlas had asked her specifically to write a series of pieces about him that would hopefully garner interest in the cause. He was slowly becoming consumed with the planning and work that surrounded him as he commanded his friends and allies about their business.

Charlotte was eager to hear of any and all new information, which she would likely find at the meeting that evening. The day had begun as a bore, but had ended rather nicely. She stayed with Enjolras after his morning class to catch up on a column herself, but the pair decided they could both use a distraction from any work. The afternoon was simply booked after that with a certain activity that they both enjoyed.

Enjorlas had drifted off and was still asleep as Charlotte rose from the bed and wrapped a sheet around her body. She blushed at her state of undress and looked around for her undergarments and dress. After donning them she leaned across Enjolras' chest and kissed him awake.

"Wake up, love," she said. "You wouldn't want to be late for your own meeting."

He sat up without pretense and got dressed himself, silent. Charlotte watched him, trying to gauge his mood, when he smiled.

"I suppose we didn't get much done today," he said wryly. Charlotte walked up to him slowly.

"I wouldn't say that," she said and played with a button on his coat. "I thought we accomplished an awful lot." He cupped her face.

"I like the way you tease," he said, and kissed her nose. She sighed in contentment. "But what did I do with those papers from class the other day. You moved them of the bed, I think. I hope…" he wandered off to leaf through stacks of papers while Charlotte watched him.

The relationship she had with him was at times difficult, and at times absolutely amazing. For one, he had difficulty expressing what he felt, however charming he could sometimes be. He had been so blind to women his entire life that being with Charlotte was such unexplored territory. His devotion to the revolutionary cause was also often difficult to cope with. He was so passionate and so completely devoted that Charlotte felt like he almost loved his country like a man loves his woman, and this was incredibly intimidating. But days like these, when Enjolras was such pleasurable company, and she felt like they were partners rather that lovers, made Charlotte appreciate everything about him all the more. She was the enamored, the devoted, the obsessed.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked her from the doorway, breaking her out of her reverie.

"Yes, of course," she said, and the pair left the building.

Upon entering the Musain, Charlotte left Enjolras' side to talk to Grantaire and Feuilly, who were the best sources for news updates. Enjolras cleared his throat at the front when Courfeyrac burst into the room, followed quickly by little Gavroche. Charlotte was shocked to see him here, with Courfeyrac, with everyone. Enjorlas looked more than displeased.

"We have news!" Courfeyrac shouted. He nudged Gavroche forward and the _gamin_ cleared his throat.

"General Lamarque is dead," he said in a loud voice.

The room was quite for several seconds before Enjorlas took action.

"Men! This is it! This is the sign we have all been waiting for, what all of Paris has been waiting for!" he shouted, and the men rose to their feet. "Lamarque was all that stood between the king and the people, and we can use this opportunity to carry out our plans. On his funeral day! We shall take to the streets and assemble the barricades. Revolution is at hand! The people will see us, they will join us!" The other members of Les Amis whooped and shouted as Enjorlas scanned the room.

"Tomorrow we rise!" He shouted, and raised a fist into the air. The men added their voices into a chorus that drowned out any others. Charlotte watched on, but was unable to make a sound. Cold dread sat heavy in the pit of her stomach. Any hope she had for a continuation of her currently perfect life vanished. She had been so happy, just this afternoon, with the possibility of being with Enjolras, but this changed everything. He hadn't even looked at her in his livid excitement, an almost demonic happiness, and she knew that Patria had stepped in and replaced her.

Her breathing suddenly labored, and she felt waves of nausea beginning to roll through her body. Sweat covered her brow and she pushed through the men around her to make it through the door. Charlotte could feel that she was going to be sick, and finally made it to the street. Heaving, she released the contents of her stomach into the alley next to the café and she stayed like that, bent over, holding her skirts and her hair, until she heard footsteps behind her.

"Enj-" she started, but stopped herself when she saw someone else in the darkness. "Oh, Joly, I'm sorry I didn't see you." It was impossible to hide her disappointment. But of course Enjorlas would be consumed with making plans, and delivering orders.

"It's alright. I just, I saw you run out so quickly, and you didn't look so well, I thought you might be sick. I didn't mean to frighten you, or make you uncomfortable," Joly stammered. He subtly blew his nose.

Charlotte straightened up, but immediately had to lean back over to throw up again. Joly rushed forward, and took her hair from her shaking fingers.

"Charlotte, you're sick!" he said, but she thought he mumbled something like, "I hope this isn't contagious," under his breath.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated, and her stomach contracted once more, but there was nothing more to expel. "I'm sorry," she said once more.

"How long has this been going on? Have you felt sick for a while?" Joly asked.

"No, no, I haven't been sick like this in years. It must be a bug of some sorts. Or maybe tonight, with all the excitement, General Lamarque, I don't know…" she trailed off.

"I'm sure that's what it is," he assured her. "Why don't you come over here and sit down for a moment," he tried, and she followed him to the pavement beside the café.

She tried to calm her breathing while Joly listed off a number of possible illnesses that have nausea as a symptom. But somehow he turned the conversation into reasons why he could have possibly contracted all of the diseases himself, and was beginning to sound convinced when Charlotte suddenly spoke.

"Joly, I'm late."

"Because you see my right hand does look a little bit big – wait what?"

"I am _late," _she stressed the word, and looked at Joly desperately. His eyes got wide.

"Late, as in, late late?" he barely whispered, and looked stricken. She could only nod.

"Oh goodness, um, well, when was the last time you had your, um," he coughed, "cycle?"

She took a breath. "It was supposed to come last week, but," she trailed off. Joly shifted on his feet and looked uncomfortable, his usually cheerful face heavy.

"Are you usually, um, regular?" he stammered, clearly ill at ease with the topic of conversation.

"I am never late, I never miss a month. That is why this is so strange," Charlotte answered. He thought for a moment and began to pace back and forth.

"…the only tangible thing, but that couldn't possibly be it, there must be another explanation…" he mumbled to himself. Charlotte didn't say anything and waited anxiously until he stopped and finally looked at her with a resigned sigh.

"Charlotte, you might not want to hear this, but I think I may know what is going on. You say this is the first time you have gotten sick?" She nodded. He took a deep breath. "It's a good thing you're sitting down," he mumbled out, and then louder he said, "I think you might be pregnant." Charlotte choked.

"What?"

"Could that even be possible? Surely that isn't possible, I mean, you carry yourself so well, and, and you always act like such a lady, and -"

Charlotte choked on a sob. "No, believe it or not that could be very possible. It could be so, so possible," she moaned. "How could I have been so careless?"

"Oh dear."

"I only said something to you because of your studies, I though you might know the reason, but this isn't what I had in mind." She looked dismayed. "Pregnant…?"

"Carrying a child is the only thing that explains all of your symptoms," Joly sat down beside her. "Your missed cycle, the morning sickness. But, Charlotte, who? When?" Suddenly he looked angry. "Was it that man who attacked you? When we all first met? Were you lying, and he actually did - "

"Joly stop!" Charlotte held up her hands. "I wasn't lying about him. No, if this is real, if I really am pregnant, then I know who the father is. It is certainly no mystery to me," she sighed, resigned.

"Then who, Charlotte?" Joly pressed, but she balked at his words.

"I won't say, I can't. If I have no dignity left at least leave me my secrets!"

"Why won't you tell me?"

"Because I don't want you to know"

"And why is that?"

"Because," she paused. "Because if you know who the father is, then there is a chance of the father finding out."

"About the pregnancy?"

"No, about Lamarque's death. Yes about the pregnancy! I doubt he will want a poor pregnant woman to take care of, especially when we aren't married. What would everyone say?" she snapped.

Joly sighed. "Charlotte, I am only trying to help. I understand that you must be scared, and unsure, and perhaps ashamed," he said, but Charlotte's eyes flashed dangerously. "No? Not ashamed?" he tried.

"No I'm not ashamed. I love him, and, and he loves me. But now is just not the right time. Now is the worst time! I cannot allow myself to be the most important thing in his life right now. He, he has too much to worry about and far too much to do, and I would only be a burden. I can figure this baby out on my own," she looked away, but heard Joly give a little sigh and take a deep breath. The air suddenly shifted around them.

"Charlotte, can I say something?"

"What is it?"

"For the record, I think Enjolras deserves to know that he is going to be a father, regardless of whether or not he is planning a revolution," he said knowingly, and Charlotte whipped her head back around, shocked.

"How did -?"

"When you talk about him, you get a certain look in you eye that only comes from talking about Enjolras. Grantaire gets it too, when he is too drunk to control what he is saying," Joly explained. "That, and Enjolras is also the only person who makes sense. It obviously had to be someone from Les Amis, and it certainly wasn't me, nor Bossuet. Musichetta would throw a fit. It's not Jehan, because, well, it's just not. Courfeyrac would have bragged about it by now, and he cares about you far too much to make an advance like that. Combeferre is too much of a gentleman, Bahorel just wouldn't make sense, and Feuilly doesn't have time. Grantaire would be anyone's last choice, and Marius is a laughable candidate. That leaves only Enjolras, and you two already spend a good amount of time together. In fact, it was bound to happen eventually."

"I still feel like a fool," Charlotte murmured. "I should have known this, this condition, was coming."

"I know it must be daunting, facing this. People might talk, because you are an unmarried woman, but I want you to understand that you don't have to go through with this alone. We can all be there for you, Charlotte. We are all you friends, and Enjolras especially deserves to know," Joly said calmly, but Charlotte shook her head.

"No, I can't. No one can know. Joly, you have to understand that. If the group finds out about this, will it change the way they view Enjolras? He said it himself, that Lamarque's death is the sign we all have been waiting for. If everyone finds out that he, and I, and the baby, then what if they begin to doubt him for some reason? I know it must sound crazy, but I can't have him know, not yet. You must promise me, Joly, that you won't tell him," she urged. "That you won't tell anyone."

"Charlotte, I – "

"Promise me, now!"

"But – "

"Joly…"

"Alright! Fine, alright, I won't say anything!" Joly finally relented, and Charlotte visibly relaxed.

"Do you feel well enough to come back inside?" he asked her gently after a moment.

"I have actually had a rather trying night. I think I would like to go home, and rest," she said. "Will you tell everyone that I wasn't feeling well, and so I left?" she asked Joly.

"Of course," he murmured, and helped Charlotte to her feet. She began to walk away but after a step or two turned back around and reached out to give Joly a hug.

"You all must be careful tomorrow, you understand? I care about all of you, and what ever happens, you must try and be safe. I can't think of losing anyone," she mumbled into his shoulder.

"Shh, Charlotte, don't think like that," he tried to console her. "But I don't want to make promises I can't keep, of me or any of Les Amis." He stepped back and gripped her shoulders. "Tomorrow is our chance, our chance to make this city, this country, a better place. We must fight, for the people," he said.

"I know," Charlotte said. "But I had to say something." She kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked away. The shadows quickly swallowed her up.

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**A/N: for story telling purposes, i am making the funeral the day after the news gets out the the Gen Gen is dead, so... fyi i guess. So some pretty big news, idk if anyone saw it coming, but biologically you all should have. ok, 4 more chapters to go! *laughs and cries at the same time* thanks for all of your reviews, i always appreciate the feedback!**

**-C**


	17. Chapter 17

**I do not own Les Miserable... **

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Shock. Charlotte felt only shock when she woke up the next day. Restless for most of the night, she awoke early, earlier than normal. Her thoughts had been consumed by the possibility of being pregnant. _Pregnant_. For a concept usually so foreign to her, the condition was suddenly right in her face. She idly rubbed her abdomen, as she had been doing for most of the night, attempting to imagine a baby growing inside of her. Charlotte had never known anyone who had been pregnant, or seen a pregnant woman up close. The nuns discussed with Charlotte, when she first began to bleed, the basics of human anatomy and the necessary components of reproduction, but being with Enjolras hadn't felt like that. Being with him had been so natural, and well, fun. The nuns had made it seem scary, although frightening the girls may have been the point.

She knew, simply from looking at her flat stomach, that the baby could not be very large. She would have to discuss with Joly, of course, her resident doctor, but she figured there were still a few weeks before she would show. Charlotte based the time of consumption on their first time together, which made the baby close to 5 weeks old. Thinking about Joly brought Charlotte's attention quickly to the rest of Les Amis, and most importantly Enjorlas.

She had almost forgotten that today was General Lamarque's funeral, and therefore the climax of the rebellion. Charlotte knew, without asking too many questions, that today was going to be the day that Enjorlas and everyone else erected their barricades to fight for the people. It was surreal, it was unimaginable, it was a nightmare to image her friends, and most importantly the man she loved, having their blood drain upon the cobblestones. She was well read in the revolution of 1789 and knew of the violence surrounding insurrections such as the one her boys were planning. In all honesty she had been ignoring the fact that this was inevitably going to happen, and the shock of it all made her eyes water and her chest tighten with fear. The tears slipped out and over her cheeks as she thought of each face stilled in death, once so lively and youthful and free. When she first met all of these young men, she hadn't felt a real connection to them. But now, it was the opposite, and she choked on a sob. She could, without hesitation, call each one a brother. And of course there was Enjolras, the first man who she could ever claim to love, who loved her back, and who had given her a child.

Of course the baby changed everything. Charlotte now not only felt the need to protect those around her, but those inside of her as well. She knew that life was going to be hard for the little one once he came into the world, and for more reasons than one. Primarily, he would be labeled as a bastard child, a target of ridicule and mockery. But more than that, was the possibility of growing up without a father at all. If Enjorlas really was to die at the barricades, then their child could never know the man who sired him. The child would never hear his voice, or see his eyes, or feel his strong arms lift him up. And Enjorlas, well, would not have a chance to see his son or daughter. The thought jolted Charlotte up, and she threw off the covers from her body, wiping the tears from her cheeks. There was still time to see him, her Enjorlas, before the funeral in a few hours. She needed to hear his voice, see his eyes, and feel the touch of his strong arms around her.

She began to hastily get dressed, throwing on garments of clothing. Almost finished, she heard a knock on the door. Charlotte immediately thought it could be Enjolras, and ran to open the portal, but it was not him at the door. Instead she gaped at the almost stranger standing before her. It was, in fact, her own mother.

Eudora Gray had always been cool and aloof during Charlotte's childhood, and it became something that Charlotte resented about her mother. Eudora had chosen to leave Charlotte to the nannies and the nursemaids for her care, and when her father began his campaign to see Charlotte wed, Eudora stood passively by and let it happen. She was never a cruel mother, she never hit her child, but treated her more like a permanent house guest that her own offspring. Charlotte and her mother never really saw eye to eye, but then, Eudora never really did much to change that fact. To see her there, in front of her, Charlotte felt the panic dissipate and a cold anger replaced it.

"Mother? What are you doing here?" Charlotte ground out. Her mother ignored her tone and brushed past her into the apartment.

"So it is true?" Eudora exclaimed, eyeing Charlotte's clothes and accumulated knick knacks. "You really are living here. After all this time, you were only in Paris."

Charlotte gritted her teeth and close the door, turning back to her mother.

"Yes, I have been here the whole time. After I left the convent, of course," she tried to explain calmly. On top of every unimaginable stress Charlotte had received in the past day alone, being discovered by her mother took the cake.

"Oh yes, we got your little letter," her mother said, clipped. "They told us you had left again when we tried to send word. Charlotte, your father and I have been looking everywhere for you! Have you any idea what kind of bother you've caused?" Charlotte narrowed her eyes at her, and Eudora visibly back peddled. "We've been worried sick, of course," she tried to add on. "When we had no idea where you'd gone, we thought any number of things could have happened to you."

"Mother, please try and unders-" Charlotte began but her mother cut her off.

"Charlotte, I'm sorry. I didn't come here to be angry, I came to make sure you were alright. That's why I am here," she urged her daughter.

"How did you find me?" Charlotte asked, suspicious. Her mother smirked and pulled a wrinkled and yellowed sheet of paper from her handbag. Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment when she recognized the pamphlet, that damn pamphlet.

"With this. One of the women at bridge brought it, saying her husband had stumbled upon it if France. France, of all places! She showed it to me, and I saw your name, and I almost couldn't believe it. I decided not tell your father, because he would do something rash, but I knew I needed to find you, to see if you were safe, to see if I could talk some sense into you. Thankfully when I got to the city, I found your name in a directory, and it gave me this address. It is a good thing I still remember my French, mind you.

"Charlotte, it's time to come home. You've been at this little escapade for long enough. I can't even believe what you've gotten yourself into, with these ridiculous democratic ideals. Politics like these will get you into serious trouble. But you've proven every point you wanted to make. You're living here, surviving somehow. But isn't it enough? Don't you want to come home?" her mother finished. Charlotte looked at her, and Eudora truly looked sad. Perhaps having her own daughter choose to run away rather than stay had made her reconsider her priorities

"Mum, I, I like it here," Charlotte said softly. "I have a job, I've made friends, I'm happy."

"But couldn't you be happy once more with us?" Eudora pressed. "Your father missed you terribly. He isn't the same man, he's a shell without you there."

"Really?"

"Of course! He wanted to see you grow all the way up, spend time with you."

"But the marriage?" Eudora walked up to Charlotte and took her by the shoulders.

"Darling, the marriage can wait. Your father is stubborn, but only because he knows what's best for you."

"But what if he doesn't? What if I know what's best for _me_?"

"Charlotte dear, all children think that they know what's best, but are oftentimes too naïve to know what that is. I promise your father and I have your best wishes at hand." Charlotte stepped back quickly and pushed her mother's arms away.

"What does that mean?" she asked. Eudora looked uneasy. "Mother?"

"Charlotte, darling, your father has made agreements. He has arranged your betrothal! Isn't that exciting? But as I said, the marriage can wait, so there is no pressure."

Charlotte looked at her mother with calculated fury.

"Betrothal?" she said. Her mother looked worried. "Betrothal?!" she repeated. Eudora wrung her hands nervously as Charlotte sank slowly into a chair. She stared at the floor for a moment before looking desperately back up at her mother.

"Mother, you have not listened to any thing I have said, nor have you paid any mind to my interests. I don't want to get married! I have tried and tried to tell you that, but you didn't listen, and I ran away to escape my fate. I always blamed father for trying to force me, but alas it is you. Passivity is worse. You are just sitting by to watch my life and my freedom slip away," Charlotte said.

"But why is getting married so disastrous for you? Every woman gets married, it is a part of life that you must accept," Eudora tried to reason.

"Primarily, I do not even know who my betrothed is. You have yet to even say his name! And if I were to ever marry, ever, it would unconditionally need to be for love, but that could never happen under your stipulations."

"But there would be a period of courtship, dear. You and Charles could easily fall in love. Your father and I certainly did!" her mother exclaimed.

"Charles? I don't even-" Charlotte trailed off with a sigh. She was quiet for a minute and then let out an odd laugh, too loud and it choked off with what almost sounded like a sob. "Mother," she said, "I can't get married."

"What do you mean you can't? You just don't want to, but that can't stop you forev-"

"No, mother, I can't. I can't get married. Not now."

"And why is that?" her mother said sharply. Charlotte barked out another hollow laugh and idly rubbed her abdomen.

"Because I'm a package deal now. No one will want me."

"Package deal?" her mother said, and looked slowly from her daughter's bitter expression to where her hand smoothed the fabric over the flat of her stomach. "Package deal?" her voice rose in pitch. Charlotte glanced at her.

"Oh yes, hadn't you heard the news? Your daughter is expecting," Charlotte said sarcastically. Eudora looked shocked and pale.

"You can't be serious?" she said, shaking her head.

"Oh no, quite serious," Charlotte deadpanned.

"You mean to tell me that you are actually –"

"Pregnant? Yes, mother, I am. So good luck marrying me off now with a bastard child to my name," Charlotte snapped, then smiled at which direction the argument had turned. Eudora looked at Charlotte with wide eyes and a calculating expression. She closed her eyes and took several breaths before positioning herself in a chair next to Charlotte. She took her daughter's hands in her own.

"Darling, everything is going to be alright," she said slowly, articulating each syllable.

"What?"

"I'm not mad, I'm not angry, I'm –" She took a breath to steady herself. "Everything is going to be alright," she repeated. Charlotte looked uneasy.

"How? What do you mean?" she asked. Her mother patted her hands absentmindedly.

"It will be just fine. We, we can fix this situation, I promise. We will have to search a bit, but in this city, someone shouldn't be too hard to find with as many prostitutes as there must be. It shouldn't be too dangerous; the baby must still be small, it'll be like it never happened…" her mother said, clearly planning in her mind. Charlotte heard her mother go on, but stopped listening when she understood what Eudora was implying.

"You want me to get rid of the baby?" Charlotte asked, incredulous. Her mother stopped talking and looked surprised.

"Of course I want you to get rid of the baby. Charlotte, what were you thinking? Of actually raising the child? I don't know how you got yourself pregnant, or to whom this baby belongs, and frankly I don't care, but you deserve a man who doesn't plant his seed and leave the thing to grow like a weed!" her mother hissed. "We will start looking for a person who can carry out the job today. It is never too soon to start." She rose and gathered her shawl more tightly around her thin shoulders but Charlotte, however, remained seated. The girl placed a protective hand over her belly.

"Mother, I will not let some shoddy man in an alleyway rid me of this child. I will let no one rid me of this child," she said slowly, deliberately. She finally stood up and stepped until she was nearly touching her mother.

"You have come to _my _apartment, marched up into the life that _I _created for myself, and are threatening to take away the one thing I will have left of the man I love most in this world. I want you to get out, now, and you will be lucky if you ever see your grandchild." Her mother's eyes widened.

"You little slut! You've been tramping around Paris, bedding down with some stranger, and now you believe yourself to be all high and mighty!" her mother raged. "This is your last chance to do the smart thing and get out while you can. You can get rid of that thing and marry Charles, or you can let the world know that you are a whore!" Charlotte finally snapped.

"Get out!" she shrieked, motioning to the door. "Get out now! You shouldn't of even bothered coming here!" Eudora huffed and walked out of the door. Charlotte stood on the threshold for a moment, listening to the sound of Eudora opening the door to the street and walking out, before realizing that there was somewhere that she desperately needed to be. She looked about the room frantically for a hat, and raced down the steps and out to the street; Eudora had disappeared, and Charlotte was on her way to the barricades.

She tried to keep the tears from spilling over her cheeks as she walked briskly through Paris. She felt rather certain that her relationship with her mother was ruined, but she almost didn't care. Lamarque's funeral would be nearly starting, and she wanted to be in no other place in the world than standing there, beside her friends.

Charlotte's mind had been subconsciously shaped by her time and experiences with the member of Les Amis, and she would be lying if she said she didn't believe in what they stood for. Throughout her journey with them, she had come to accept the city as her home, and felt the same desire for change course through her veins. No longer was this a writing job, but something that had manifested into the core of her beliefs. As she walked, she realized that, baby or not, she was willing to die for her adoptive Patria. A small part of her also came to terms with the fact that if Enjorlas died, then she would have nothing left to live for. Charlotte quickened her pace to make it in time for the funeral of General Lamarque.

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**A/N: kinda a filler chapter, kinda important, so ehh. also for the sake of the story, im gonna assume that ms. gray understands at least a little bit about the political unrest in france. She's an averagely smart lady.**

**-C**

**p.s...only 3 more chapter...what's gonna happen...?**


	18. Chapter 18

**Some content for this Chapter comes from Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. I do not own Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.**

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Enjorlas, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre hurried through the streets of Paris amidst a growing mob of eager young men. Returning from the funeral of General Lamarque, they sought out the barricades to make their stand. Courfeyrac happened upon a familiar building, and recognizing it as his own, quickly hurried up to his apartment to retrieve a hat. Enjolras and Combeferre waited on the street below. Combeferre was anxious and restless, seeing as the funeral precession had erupted into chaos and violence, and more was sure to come. Always a man who preferred peace to war, Combeferre knew all hopes of political compromise were gone. He winced as a smattering of gunfire could be heard from somewhere else in the city.

Enjorlas, for his part, was calm with a sense of self-contained excitement. His blue eyes were wild but his mouth remained firm. The day of reckoning was at hand, and the time to fight for the people had come. He was secretly glad he hadn't seen Charlotte at the funeral. There was no way of knowing what could have happened to her, had she been there, when the guns went off on the Austerlitz Bridge. He was worried, slightly, because he hadn't seen her since the night before, and a sudden panic seized him when he realized he never said good-bye to her, and the shocking truth was that perhaps he might never get the chance to. Glancing at Combeferre he tried to calm down and think only of the cause, of the people of Paris.

Courfeyrac, upon entering his Apartment, was told by the portress that a young man had come to wait on him. Courfeyrac searched him out and addressed him.

"Good man, what do you need? I have somewhere to be at precisely this moment," he said. The young man, dressed in an odd combination of clothing with a tattered cap on his head, glanced at him.

"I was looking for monsieur Marius, sir," he mumbled out.

"He's not here."

"When will he get back?"

"I haven't the slightest inclination. Now if you would excuse me, I must be off," Courfeyrac said and made for the door.

"Where are you going?" the young man called out.

"To the barricades."

"Do you need men? Do you want me to come?" the boy asked hesitantly, and Courfeyrac shrugged.

"The choice is yours, my good man. Come if you want, stay if you would like. You have the freedom to decide," he said, and left the room. The boy shifted on his feet before following him and joining the mob. Courfeyrac rejoined Enjolras and Combeferre, who had found Feuilly, Jean Prouvaire, and Bahorel and whom were all heading along the narrow street. The boy merged in with the group, and walked along.

Some ways down the street, someone shouting his name from above alerted Courfeyrac. Looking up, he saw Bossuet leaning out of the window of a wine shop. Courfeyrac, confused, waited until Bossuet spoke.

"What are you doing?" he finally shouted. He seemed quite drunk.

"We are off to make a barricade," he answered. Bossuet frowned.

"Why don't you just build it here?" he called down. Courfeyrac looked around.

"You're right. This spot would work perfectly for a barricade or two."

Courfeyrac called for the men to stop, and with Enjolras' approval, the mob streamed into the Rue de la Chenvrerie. A young woman with dark hair slipped easily into the throng.

This woman, it may be perceived, was in fact Charlotte. How she had managed to find the very group she was searching for was a mystery, but she silently thanked God and walked along with the jostling crowd. Courfeyrac and the other students were off directing orders, but Charlotte stayed where she was, not wanting to spook them. She feared that if Enjolras caught sight of her, he would send her away from the barricades and him. After the stroke of luck in finding them, she wouldn't dare take the risk until it was too late for her to leave.

After fleeing her mother and her apartment, Charlotte had trekked closer to the funeral. However, the government, fearing insurrection, had placed extra soldiers around the procession, and the result was an overcrowded mess. She was far from the bridge when the first shots were fired, but near enough to experience the effects of the chaos. Pushed into the side streets by the mass of people, she knew she needed to find Enjorlas, or Combeferre, or anyone from Les Amis. The closest place she knew to look was Courfeyrac and Marius' apartment, and she got there in time to see Courfeyrac emerge from his building and join the crowd. She followed until the order was given to enter the Rue de la Chenvrerie.

Students and workingmen alike were tearing up the cobblestones of the street and adding barrels to begin the structure of the barricade. Charlotte, along with a few other women who decided to stay, at first helped unload empty barrels and boxes from the cellar of the wine shop, but eventually moved inside to tear fabric into strips for bandages. Charlotte shuddered at the thought of using them. Joly came into check on the progress and was astounded to see her.

"Charlotte, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I'm here to assist in any way I can." She motioned to the women to her left and right. "We all are." Joly frowned and asked to speak to her in private.

"What, Joly? What?" she snapped at him when they had moved away.

"Charlotte you shouldn't be here. You know as well as I do that it wouldn't be right."

"How? You mean to tell me that it wouldn't be right to come here, help my friends, my brothers and sisters, fulfill the goal that we have all been working towards for months? You believe I should sit at home, hide in my home like the people above this barricade, and ignore the sounds of gunfire that will eventually echo through the streets? You must want me to wait, not knowing if the people I care about most live or die. That in itself would be a fate worse than death," Charlotte fumed.

"I know you want to be here, and we can use your help, but isn't there something else you should be worrying about?" Joly said and looked pointedly to her stomach. Charlotte searched for words as tears filled her eyes. She clearly knew he was right, but didn't know what to do.

"I couldn't just sit back and do nothing," she said quietly. Joly sighed.

"I know. I understand that you want to help, but now is not the time to be selfish or brave. You need to think about the life of your child," he said, and abruptly turned on his heel and left her think. Charlotte wiped the tears away, but the other women offered no comment, thankfully.

The men were destroying for the sake of building: wood from all around the wine shop, carriages, doors, cobblestones, all contributed to the barricade that blocked the street, and it was coming along nicely. Charlotte walked to the entrance of the shop to survey the progress, but a familiar face walked up to her from the orchestrated chaos outside. Grantaire, drunk and disheveled, looked as surprised as Joly to see her, but in a more cheerful way.

"Charlotte, you know you shouldn't be here. E will not be happy," he slurred. Charlotte smiled sadly at him, but continued the light banter as best she could.

"Let him be. I came of my own volition. No man can tell me 'nay"," she countered. Grantaire walked closer to her and stood a moment before Charlotte threw her arms around her friend's neck, choking on a sob.

"Grantaire, I can't lose you," she said into his shoulder. "Any of you. This is all too real, the fact that you could all die at any moment." Grantaire just hushed her.

"You don't have to worry about me. I don't believe in this stuff anyway. It's all just good fun," he said, but Charlotte could hear the fear in his voice that even the wine couldn't mask.

"You've been a good friend to me, R," Charlotte said, and pulled away. He smiled sadly.

"And you to me," he answered, and after giving her a quick peck on the cheek walked back into the crowded street. He hadn't gone very far, however, before Enjolras descended from the barricade and confronted him about something. Charlotte couldn't hear what one said to the other, but it was clear they were arguing about something. Finally Enjolras motioned angrily to the wine shop, and Grantaire stormed back to where Charlotte was standing in the doorway. He glanced at her briefly before brushing past into the shop where he ascended the steps to the second story. Charlotte, confused, looked back towards Enjorlas, and froze when she saw his eyes locked on her. She grimaced and stepped out to walk towards him, but he met her halfway. The anger was still plain on his face.

"What did you say to Grantaire," she asked before he could speak.

"It doesn't matter. Why are you here?" he snapped immediately. Charlotte rolled her eyes.

"I will not explain my cause or reasoning to everyone who asks. I am here because I want to be, because I want to do everything I can to bring liberty and freedom to France, and because I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I never got to see you at least once more."

"Charlotte," Enjolras sighed angrily, "it is not safe for you to be here. The national guard marches towards us as we speak."

"You think that matters to me? I care not if the king himself were marching to our barricade! This means something to me as well; I want to see the world change, for the better. I am ready to fight, in any way I can." Enjolras swallowed and stepped closer to her.

"Charlotte, I love you," he said quietly, and Charlotte's heart fluttered. "You are the only one that I have ever loved, and I could not bear to see you get hurt, let alone killed."

"And I love you, Enjorlas, but if you die, then," Charlotte touched her stomach once but swallowed her misgivings, "then I have nothing more to live for. I am staying, and I fear there is nothing you can do to change that fact." She lifted her chin defiantly.

"You truly care about this?" he asked skeptically. She narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, I do. All of you are prepared to die for your country, why can't I?"

"But this isn't your country," he countered.

"But you are my countrymen," she said, and tears welled up in her eyes. Enjorlas looked as if he almost wanted to lean in and kiss her, but someone shouted out his name from the barricade. He closed his eyes, frustrated.

"We'll talk about this later," he said and quickly squeezed Charlotte's hand before walking away.

The activity swirled around her for a while longer and suddenly the barricades were finished. Far from perfect, they would serve to defend the insurrects against attack, at least for a spell. It was beginning to grow dark, but Courfeyrac made the rounds, passing out guns and cartridges to the assembled students and workingmen. He paused when he got to her, leaning against the doorway to the wine-shop. He glanced at a musket in his hand, and then looked back at her.

"We have an extra?" he said, almost as a question, and held out the gun to her. Charlotte bit her lip, staring at the weapon. She had been prepared to stay, but hadn't really grasped that it would mean fighting, shooting, and killing.

"I want the musket," a voice called out, startling both Charlotte and Courfeyrac. They turned to see Gavroche strutting up, hand extended. Charlotte narrowed her eyes.

"I hardly think that is a good id-" she started but Courfeyrac held up a hand to cut her off.

"I don't know, perhaps it is a good idea to let him have it," he said. "If he can shoot it, of course."

"I'm a good shot!" Gavroche protested. Courfeyrac looked at him for a moment longer.

"Fine," he said, and Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Take the gun, but don't tell Enjolras!" he said and the _gamin_ skittered away.

"What?" Courfeyrac said when he saw Charlotte's expression.

"You know what," she said and stalked away to ask Madam Hucheloup if there were any last minute preparations to be done.

By this time night had truly fallen, and Charlotte collapsed into a lone chair in the shop. There was nothing more to do now but wait. All of the men were outside, resting behind the barricade or standing watch, and she stared, consumed with her thoughts, at the knotted wooded floor. She hadn't seen Grantaire since his argument with Enjolras, and she hoped he was somewhere where he wouldn't get himself in needless trouble. His time of reckoning was soon going to be upon him, as he must soon decide where he stands. His cynical ways just might deter him from taking part in this revolution, or he might surprise them all and take a final stand. Charlotte would, however, never know.

She, and the other few women who'd stayed behind, had passed out bread and rations to the men. She had made sure to give Joly a clean piece, for which he thanked her, and she smiled as he and Bossuet shared it. She had to call Bahorel down from the barricade to give him his portion. He was elated at the sight of the barricade, and the musket in his hand. Charlotte had to laugh at his energy. She herself was enervated. Feuilly traded her a bracelet woven from straw for his meal. She nearly began to cry when she saw how intricate he had made it, his craftsman's fingers able to weave a detailed pattern likely from habit. He merely smiled and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"For Poland," he whispered.

Jean Prouvaire had taken his ration from Charlotte but _tisked_ at the quality of her coiffure. She tentatively asked if he would braid it, and he happily complied. Sitting her down he plaited it quickly, and even braided Joly's as well when he walked by. Bossuet frowned and rubbed his bald head, but Joly patted his arm. The two sat together once again, and Jehan joined them a little later.

Charlotte walked up to Combeferre and Courfeyrac last. They had a map of Paris spread out on a bench between them and were talking when she approached. Courfeyrac seemed in good spirits, Combeferre less so.

"Charlotte, can you believe it is happening?" Courfeyrac said excitedly. "After all of our planning, idea becomes reality."

"I know I cannot believe it," Combeferre grumbled. Charlotte smiled affectionately at the two, and handed them the bread.

"I'm quite… amazed at it all. It seems such a short time ago I stumbled into your café," she said softly.

"Yes, and you punched Enjolras! That was quite a night. I certainly enjoyed myself," Courfeyrac said. Combeferre scoffed at him.

"She also fainted! I hardly think that was a good night for her," he said, gesturing vaguely towards Charlotte, who smiled to hide a grimace. She reached back to finger a scar on her shoulder.

"It was not all for naught," she said. "For example, I met you. And now you are the people I hold most dear," she said offhandedly. Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at her a moment before pulling her into a hug. The trio stayed like that for a while until a workingman called for Combeferre. The tree of them laughed a little, but when they pulled away there was something in each other's eyes. They knew, Charlotte, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, that tonight was perhaps their last night. Unspoken words of friendship and the constancy of memories bound them together when Charlotte gripped their hands and let them go, returning to the wine-shop.

And so she sat, alone, waiting for something to happen, but dreading the moment that it did. The world around her was holding its breath in anticipation, allowing the pressure to build before the national guard advanced upon the insurgent's barricade to spill the people's blood. Suddenly the atmosphere in the room shifted, and she looked up to see Enjolras staring at her from the doorway. The low lantern cast a reddish hue across his marble cheek and cast his eyes into shadow. He was almost nearly frightening, but when he lifted his eyes, she saw her own fear reflected there.

"Enjolras?" she called out softly, and he came forward without a word. She half rose from her chair but he quickly leaned down to kiss her lips, desperately, as if to ground himself on earth. He looked crazed, and Charlotte was worried.

"What's wrong?" she said when he pulled back. He only shook his head. She glanced around him towards the barricade outside, but none were watching. Nevertheless, she tugged him forward gently and led him to the space beneath the stairs where none could see or overhear.

"Talk to me, please," she whispered.

"Charlotte, what if this is all a mistake," he said hoarsely. "I'm leading everyone to their deaths." He closed his eyes in silent agony.

"Enjolras, everyone here tonight is here because they believe. They believe in France, in freedom, in equality, but most of all they believe in you. _I _believe in you. We knew the price to pay, and yet stayed until this moment. The time has come to make the fat ones pay. You said that yourself, and we all know it to be true. Paris knows it to be true, and they will answer the call. I have no doubt about it, just as I have no doubt in you. None of these men do. We are fighting for what is right, and that makes dying worthwhile. You have to believe that," she urged him. He nodded but didn't look convinced.

"You know, I used to believe in one thing, and one thing only," he said. "I was solely devoted to the revolutionary cause, that I was willing to die, daily, to see its course laid out."

"But now?"

"But now I have people that I want to protect, and I'm not sure if that changes things or not."

"The men knew what they were getting into when-"

"You, Charlotte, I was talking about you," he said pointedly. She looked at him for a moment before smiling sadly.

"You have protected me, Enjolras. You've protected me from myself, you've made me happy, you… you've shown me how to love a person," she said. His eyes roamed her face.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, grazing her cheek with a knuckle. She pressed closer and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He deepened the kiss and his hands found her hips, gently pressing her against the wall. When she buried her hands in his hair, his hips bucked a little bit and his teeth grazed her lip. Time slowed down and the pair nearly forgot about the barricade waiting menacingly outside the shop. But Charlotte heard the noise before he did, and broke away with a gasp to listen. Enjolras turned as well and eventually heard it, the sound of feet hitting on cobblestones. In the next moment little Gavroche snuck through a hole in the barricade and the men looked up at him.

"They come," was all he said.

She could hear the students rise and take action but Charlotte sucked in air and gripped Enjorlas by the front of his shirt, not wanting to watch him leave. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her against his chest. She fought the tears that pooled in her eyes.

"You have to go," she mumbled into his shirt.

"Shh," he said, but Charlotte stepped back anyway.

"Enjolras," Charlotte looked at him desperately. "This is your time. You have to lead them." When he didn't move she struck his shoulder. "Go!" she said more forcefully. He leaned forward until his four head touched hers.

"I love you," he said, and kissed her lightly once more. He abruptly ducked out of the alcove and walked briskly outside, where she saw him take a musket in hand and mount the barricade. She leaned back against the wall and let the tears fall, trying to keep her sobs as quiet as possible.

She finally calmed down enough to pay attention to what was going on outside. Suddenly the rapid sound of gunfire ripped through the air, and windows shattered along the street. Charlotte flinched but crept towards the door. Looking towards the barricade, but safe from stray gunfire, she could see the revolutionaries holding their own fire. But just as quickly, it was perceived that the guards were trying to climb the barricade. The men sprung into action, and Charlotte saw Bahorel strike down a guardsmen. She gasped and cried out, however, when she saw him in turn struck down by an enemy's bayonet. Just like that, already one of her friends was dead, and she feared for the fates of the rest.

The men fought across the whole of the barricade to keep the guardsmen from taking it, and Courfeyrac was close to his end when a shot rang out across the street, killing the guardsmen and saving him. Charlotte alone could turn and look down the street to where Marius had emerged from the markets, pistols in hand. The other few women, having emerged from the cellar of the wine shop, kept Charlotte from running out into the chaos, telling her to wait until a break in the fighting presented itself. One gasped when she spotted a guardsmen aiming at Marius.

"Take care, Marius!" Charlotte yelled, but the soldier fired. Marius did not fall, however, and Charlotte saw a young man on the barricade grip his stomach where the ball entered. He had sacrificed himself to keep Marius alive, it appeared. Marius, realizing he still breathed, advanced from the shadows and climbed the barricade, a barrel of powder in hand. He seized a torch and threatened the guardsmen and revolutionaries alike with the destruction of the barricade. The guardsmen quickly fled, and the men hailed Marius as a hero.

The battle over, for the moment, Charlotte practically flew outside to join the men and assist with the wounded. She cried out when she saw some of the students carry Bahorel's body inside the wine shop, and looked around frantically for Enjorlas. He was alive, clapping Marius on the shoulder, so Charlotte was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

The moment passed into terror again, however, when someone's voice rang out above the din.

"Where is Prouvaire? Jehan?"

The assembled men looked around but he was nowhere to be found. Enjolras suddenly looked murderous, and mounted the barricade to look out across the street where the guard had assembled a ways off.

"He must have been captured, as he is not among the dead," he said darkly, and Combeferre confirmed this. The group silenced any conversation, and strained their ears against the noises of the night. And then they heard, echoing out across the empty street:

"Vive la France! Vive la révolution!" It was the voice of Jean Prouvaire. Immediately after, a single shot echoed out, and the voice had no more to offer.

Charlotte alone screamed, and quickly placed a hand over her own mouth to quiet the sobs. Jehan was dead, executed as a prisoner, with none of his friends beside him; the poet had died praising the revolution and France. Combeferre wrapped his arms around her and she buried her face into his chest, unable to control the tears that flowed out. When she finally calmed down enough, he had to leave her to assist Enjolras, and left Charlotte to help dress wounds.

The men, in the aftermath of the first battle, gathered the dead, treated the injured, and refortified the barricade. All the men, Charlotte included, tried to keep busy to fight back any fear or panic left in them. Joly was in charge of dressing wounds and administering morphine, and had asked Charlotte to assist him. He seemed anxious and tightly wound with Charlotte near him, and even jumped a little when Enjorlas called everyone's attention.

"Men, the first night is drawing to a close, and for some of us, you must think about your desire to stay. Not everyone here is a student or a young man. Many of you have wives, and children, who need you alive. We do not need all of us here at the barricade. I think it wise that those of you who can, leave this barricade and live to tell the tale," he announced. The men, however, voiced their objections.

"Please, you know I am right," he pleaded. "Think of your children over yourselves, if you can." His solemnity sobered them up, and it was agreed that 5 men would leave the barricade to be with their families. It was after this was decided that Enjolras pulled Charlotte off to the side.

"Charlotte, please reason with me. Go with those men and leave the barricade. If you do not, you will surely die," he said. She frowned.

"We talked about this, Enjolras," she said. "I am prepared to die."

"Yes but things have changed," he said ambiguously. "Please, think about this rationally. Don't stay for me, and don't be selfish. Think about the people who care about you and who will want to see you breathing, not laid out upon the street."

"What people?" she said bitterly. "My family hates me." Enjolras looked desperate, and it shocked her. She looked at him.

"You really want me to leave?" she asked quietly.

"I do," he said sincerely. "I, I would be able to die peacefully knowing you were not in danger."

Charlotte thought for a moment. He was presenting her a chance to live, and while she cared naught for her own life, the life of her unborn child weighed heavily on her mind. If she died, the final legacy of the man she loved would die as well. And, after all, the child deserved a chance at life. Enjolras was in fact right, she was being selfish. To see this child murdered would be a greater crime than living a life of grief with out him. She bit her lip.

"I, I will leave," she murmured. "If that will make you happy." Silently she confirmed the fact that his child would now be born, but she knew it would never know its father. Enjolras closed his eyes in relief.

"Thank you, Charlotte," he said. "Thank you. Now come, they will leave shortly."

He rushed her through the crowd, and she gripped the hands and touched the cheeks of her friends as she walked by, saying silent goodbyes. The men who were leaving, having disguised themselves as guardsmen, were ready to leave and Charlotte turned desperately to Enjolras.

"Enjolras, I, I lo-" she wanted to say it, in front of every one, but didn't know if he would want it. "I-"

He looked at her and smiled sadly.

"I know," he said, and watched as she was lead away from the barricade, and away from her death.

The rest, it may be feared, is already known. The following morning, little Gavroche was struck down trying to gather cartridges from fallen men. He was placed in the line of dead students growing longer in the wine shop. At noon the guard advanced once again, at began a devastating assault on the barricade. One by one each revolutionary fell: Bossuet, Feuilly, Joly, Courfeyrac. Combeferre died looking up to heaven. The battle raged until eventually Enjolras, one of the few remaining alive, was forced to retreat into the shop.

He ascended to the upper floor and awaited his death. He was not forced to wait long, as soldiers rushed in after him. Before they shot, however, a disturbance from the corner sought their attention. It was Grantaire, having been asleep, finally awaking. Enjolras stared with disbelief as the drunk rose and with staggering steps shoved his way between the assembled guardsmen to stand beside Enjolras.

"Vive la republique," Grantaire whispered. "Do you permit it?"

Enjolras smiled, at the shots were fired. Pierced by 8 bullets, he finally bowed his head.

* * *

The next day, it was apparent that the street was destroyed. Cannons had ripped holes in the buildings, the remains of the barricade lay strewn in pieces, and the paving stones had been ripped violently from the ground. The government worked quickly to erase any evidence of insurgence: the pieces of the barricade were carted off, broken windows were knocked out of their frames to be replaced, and women were told to clean up the street. Eight or nine of them knelt on the ground and soaked rags in the blood pooled up between the stones. Whether it was the blood of the soldiers cast down from the barricade or the blood of students fighting to defend it, the women would never know. Blood shows no identity once it has been shed. The students who began this mess were lined up honorably on the floor of the café; the soldiers were still laid where they perished. The student's had been lining up their dead as they died, so when the women happened upon the rest of the bodies, they took it upon themselves to lay them next to their brothers. Even the boys upstairs and the executed student were placed in the line. The activities on the street churned beside them, but none had it in their hearts to move the dead revolutionaries.

"They weren't 'ardly men yet," one woman said, and the others murmured their agreements. The buckets continued to fill with blood.

"Look," one of the girls suddenly said. The others looked up.

Another young woman, clad in dark clothing with a veil across her face, walked slowly down the street. She stepped around shards of glass, but stooped down to pick one up. She thumbed it contemplatively but eventually it fell back down to the ground. She hardly noticed the women on the street but drifted closer to the wine shop. The interior, thanks to the destruction, was visible from the street. Once inside, the woman removed her veil and the cleaning girls gasped.

She was devastatingly beautiful. Large blue eyes sat wide in a heart shaped face, and the woman's dark hair swept across her shoulders. Her gown, though black and severe, was of expensive taste that contrasted sharply with the wreckage. The girls on the street stared in wonder as this strange woman stood and stared for a long moment at the row of dead bodies. A hand eventually found it's way to the woman's throat, but she did not cry. The girls craned their necks to see her kneel down and place her hand across the cheek of the first boy in the line. A look of confusion swept across her face as she swept off the hat placed haphazardly on the boy's head. Long, dark hair tumbled out from beneath the hat and the woman cried out, emotion clouding her face. She stroked the cheek again, and it appeared she whispered a name.

"Éponine."

Moving to the next boy, the woman again stroked his cheek, said a name, and bent down to kiss his forehead. The other women were too far away to hear her voice this time, but she continued down the line. Stroke, name, kiss. Stroke, name, kiss. Stroke, name, kiss. The second to last student was in fact not a student at all, but a boy. A child, really. He had been the hardest to look upon, and it was clearly the same for the women. The girls looked on, speechless, as she finally broke down and began to cry, slowly combing her fingers through his hair to neaten it. She used her thumb to wipe a smudge of dirt from his forehead before finally kissing it. Then she stood and moved to the last student.

The women all remembered this one, the last boy in the line, the one found upstairs. His dark haired friend was farther down the line, but he, this blonde revolutionary, earned a place at the end. He was beautiful, even in death, and his face appeared calm and serene, and odd smile frozen on his face. The woman in dark gazed at him, but after a moment just crumpled to the ground, as if she possessed no more strength. The girls could clearly understand that all these students meant something to her, but he was special. She scooted closer to him, ignoring the grime that coated the floor, and took his cold hand in hers. She whispered something, and then began to speak more earnestly. Sometime during her speech she began to cry again, horrible wracking sobs. She leaned forward and desperately placed a kiss directly on his lips, and her tears fell upon his face. As a final gesture she took the man's hand and placed it palm down, fingers splayed, across her stomach. One of the older women in the company gasped.

"What?" one the younger ones asked. The woman kept the boys hand on her abdomen and her cries grew louder. "Why is she doing that?"

"She's with child," the older woman closed her eyes, imagining this young woman's agony. The others watched with sympathy as the young mother kissed the boy one last time and finally rose. She walked out of the wine shop, and left the street by way of the markets, allowing the women to watch her departing back.

* * *

**A/N: *Cries* i know many people were questioning whether i would keep this canon or not, and the answer is yes, i kept it canon. And that meant that our beloved revolutionaries had to die. I cried, you might cry, we can all just cry together. PLEASE GIVE ME FEEDBACK! it makes the story better. **

**-C**

**p.s. only two more chapters! **


	19. Chapter 19

**I don't own Les Miserables... i know, surprise surprise.**

* * *

_Charlotte sat at her table before a sheet of parchment, but the words wouldn't come to mind. She hadn't been able to write for months. Her fingers tapped a staccato beat against the pale cream paper, increasing in speed at rhythm until suddenly a large hard descended upon her own to calm the incessant tapping. She glanced up, frightened, but looked into the deep blue eyes that she thought she would never see again. He smiled down at her, a content expression on his handsome features. Charlotte could only stare at him in wonder. He was beautiful, the window behind him creating a halo around his blonde hair, which was longer than she remembered it being. His warm perusal elicited familiar feelings inside of her, and she closed her eyes in bliss. _

_'What are you writing?' his rich baritone voice came from in front of her. She opened her eyes in confusion. The page, which was previously blank, was now filled with writing. She tried to read the words but they were senseless, written neither in English nor French. She looked back up at him desperately, but he had nothing to offer. _

_'What does it say?' he asked. _

_'I don't know.'_

_'What do you mean? You wrote it.'_

_'I didn't write this. I haven't been able to –'_

_'Been able to what, write? Why?'_

_She stared at him and her confused mind tried to make sense of the situation. _

_'Because of you,' she said finally. He laughed and her heart fluttered. _

_'How could I ever stop you from writing? How could I stop you from doing anything?' he gently thumbed her hand, his browner skin passing over the alabaster hue of hers. She wrenched her hand away and glared at him. _

_'No. No it is you! It has been you this whole time! I can't do anything anymore! You left! You're gone!' she shouted at him, and he took a step back from her biting rage. _

_'You left me! You left me all alone! You all left, and I could never see you again!' she continued. She looked confused for a moment as he raised his hands, palms out, in defense. _

_'How, how are you here? Why are you here? You, you aren't here, are you?' she said. _

_'Charlotte, of course I'm here. You're talking to me. Talk to me, please,' he said, stepping to her once again._

_'No!' she shouted. 'Get back, stay away. I know you're not here, not really, you're not here!' She balled up the paper on her desk and threw it at him. It struck him in the chest, and he looked down at it in surprise. Across his chest, 8 pinpoints of red began to blossom from beneath his clothes. He fingered one distractedly, and then looked back up at her in confusion; he backed up until he met the wall where he slowly sank to the floor. Charlotte cried out in alarm and finally rose from the table, crossing the room to kneel beside him. _

_'Don't leave me again,' she cried, taking his hand. His eyes drifted in and out of focus before settling on her face. _

_'I never meant to leave you the first time,' he said quietly. His eyes trailed down to her stomach, which he seemed to notice for the first time. His eyes widened when he took in her belly, which swelled beneath her batiste nightgown. _

_'What –'_

_'I meant to tell you. I did, I just, I couldn't,' she tried to explain, desperately clutching his hand. _

_'Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me?' he said, trying to shy away from her. She let out a sob._

_'I should have! I should have told you. Why didn't I tell you? You never knew. You had no idea,' she choked out. He tried again to move away from her. _

_'Why didn't you tell me I was going to be a father? What is wrong with you?' he said angrily. _

_'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' she repeated desperately, but he was moving away, farther away. He was disappearing faster than she could crawl after him, and she was dragging her knees through the blood he trailed behind._

_ 'I'm sorry!' she shrieked after him. 'Enjolras, I'm sorry! Don't leave me!' But he was gone. _

_'Enjolras!' _

Charlotte awoke with a start. She lay in bed, her back soaked with sweat, and she fought to suppress the fear and guilt and wracking grief that accompanied these nightmares. He came to her in dreams, often, although he was not the only star. Some nights it was soldiers in red breaking through her door to pierce her chest with bayonets. Others had her watching, from above, as bullets entered each of her friends. Their cries were always fresh in her mind, even so long after the failed June rebellion. The most difficult nightmares to bear, however, were the ones that ended with Enjolras looking at her with his hollow, disappointed, disgusted eyes and demanding to know why she hadn't told him about the baby. She would wake up hoarse from screaming in the night.

3 months had gone by in a foggy haze. Charlotte could barely function, as wrought with grief as she was. Not only was she attempting to cope with the death of her friends, but also with the awesome weight of the personal guilt she felt over keeping her pregnancy from Enjolras. She knew now that he had deserved to know, but now of course, it was too late. Some mornings it was difficult to get up, and she avoided leaving her apartment unless for work. She couldn't write anymore; the words, once always present at the edge of her consciousness, had fled and left her barren of ideas. She stopped writing for the newspaper a few weeks after the rebellion ended, but she had found work at a tavern serving food. The pay was meager, but it put food on the table and kept her alive.

She hadn't cried since visiting the students. While she had, for those few tense moments, felt an unbearable amount of emotion inside of her, more than she had ever experienced before, she was now empty. Devoid of all emotions, Charlotte was a shell, numb to everything around her. The feeling, which she understood to be raw and un-channeled grief, converted into a deadening weight that left Charlotte unable to feel anything else. The loss of her friends, and the loss of the man she loved, was a blow unlike any she had ever experienced, and the cynic inside of her doubted she would be able to recover. Every morning she went through the motions of living, but felt as dead as her friends. Through out it all, she had not shed a tear.

The only thing keeping Charlotte sane was the baby. After 4 months she was beginning to show, even through her gowns, and she knew the baby was growing. She was obviously with child, and people outside began to notice it as well. She would hear whispers when she walked to work, but her emotional state hardly allowed for shame or hurt feelings. Let them talk, for Charlotte cared naught.

She spoke to the babe inside her womb, as it was her only company. The first few days after the death of Les Amis, Charlotte was angry with the baby, because it only served to remind her of their memory. After a spell, though, she was vaguely aware that this was a good thing, and the relationship between mother and unborn baby improved considerably. She was fascinated with its growth, as day by day it seemed her stomach grew a bit more, and she spoke to it about her life, and the life of the people she had known. She resisted talking about its father, because when she tried she was left speechless and dry-throated. Only distantly was she aware of the burgeoning love she felt for her child.

Charlotte swung her feet onto the floor and tried to stand. She moved slowly, to avoid becoming sick, and took care of the ravenous hunger clawing at her belly. A consequence of the baby, she supposed. Briefly she glanced at her dresser and glared at a letter upon it. From her parents, it asked about her health, wondering if she had been involved in the tragic, but not surprising, result of those terrible revolutionary insurgences. Her mother had told her father about the baby, and the man was furious, and her betrothal had been called off. Charlotte had never answered it, and that had been months ago. She dressed half-heartedly, and attempted to pull back her matted hair from her face. She was devouring some bread when a knock resounded from the door. It was light and feminine, which only served to confuse Charlotte. She rose and cautiously opened the portal to reveal a trim, young woman.

She was beautiful, with a pretty oval face framed by distinct blonde hair. Her large expressive eyes were kind, and welcoming, and carefully disguised any pity when she looked at Charlotte. Her gown was expensive, considerably so, and it spoke of the girl's sense of fashion and dedication to her toilet. Charlotte felt a dull pang of jealousy when she looked down at her own appearance, which paled in comparison.

"Charlotte?" the girl said in a delicate voice. Charlotte's eyes widened, but she nodded.

"I-I'm sorry, can I help you?" she asked the woman before her, whose countenance lit up in a smile.

"Goodness, I'm so sorry. My name is Euphrasie Fauchelevaunt, but nearly everyone calls me Cosette," the woman said politely. The name stuck out to Charlotte.

"Cosette…" she wondered aloud, and on a whim she murmured, "Marius…?"

The girl looked down and smiled fondly.

"My fiancé."

"Your fiancé?" Charlotte was bewildered. The way the woman spoke indicated that the man was not dead, as no outward show of grief displayed itself on the girl's face, only a subtle hint of pride. Which meant… "He's alive?" she whispered, the shock echoing across her body. Could Marius really be alive and well, and not buried, cold, in the ground?

"Oh yes, he survived, my, um-" Cosette looked around, and Charlotte noticed.

"Oh, please, come in," she said, and ushered her in the door.

When the portal was closed and Charlotte cleared a space through the clutter, the two women sat down.

"I apologize," Cosette began. "There are still rumors about that the police are looking for insurrects who survived. I would never think you one to speak out against Marius, of course, but there are others who I would have more fear toward. You must be so confused as to why I am here."

"I'll admit I don't quite understand."

"Of course. I know we have never met, which I regret because I have only heard wonderful things about you, but I just had to come and speak with you. After Marius woke up, and explained things, I just had to come."

"When Marius awoke? I'm afraid I don't understand. I was to believe that he had died. But his body… it wasn't there? Oh I can't remember anything…" Charlotte furrowed her brow. The memories, the ones she had tried to erase from her mind, were difficult to draw forward.

"Marius was lucky, unbelievably lucky. My father, Monsieur Fauchelevaunt, went to the barricade after learning about the love that had grown between Marius and myself. As the battle began to turn towards the worst, my father escaped into the sewers with Marius, who was remarkably still alive. They travelled to the home of Marius' grandfather, and Marius has spent the last 3 months recuperating. He has only awoken this week," Cosette explained.

Charlotte looked sad, but still said "that's wonderful."

"Charlotte, I want you to know that you don't have to suffer alone anymore. I know and understand the grief that you must be experiencing. I thought Marius was dead for 3 months before he awoke and sent word. It is crippling, I know, and I wish that I had had a friend to confide in."

Charlotte looked almost angry for a moment before the sadness crept back into her features.

"But you see, your Marius is at home to welcome you every night. I have no one. The man I love is gone, and he is never coming back," she said quietly. Cosette looked horrified with herself.

"Charlotte I'm so sorry. I had no idea. He, he died on the barricade?" Charlotte nodded mutely and Cosette continued. "How I wish the past could be rewritten. No one deserves to bury their loved ones. You must think me a condescending fool, coming here trying to help. I'm so sorry," she teared up, looking at the dark haired woman before her and rose to leave.

"Wait, stay," Charlotte said suddenly. "I don't think that at all. You had no way of knowing. No one knew…" Cosette sat back down.

"I'll admit I didn't know there was someone you loved, but I did know how close you were to all of the boys. When Marius awoke, he immediately asked about his friends. He was so heartbroken, so wracked with guilt as you are, he could barely function. But after a time, he asked about you. He only met you once, or so he said, but he remembered how much you meant to everyone. Courfeyrac talked about you a great deal, and Jehan always had something wonderful to add. Marius insisted I look into your whereabouts, to confirm whether or not you had survived. He was incessant about it. He will be so overjoyed to know that another friend survived."

During Cosette's speech Charlotte almost felt the pinprick of tears that begins in the nose before moving to the eyes, but she fought it; it felt too foreign.

"Marius spoke of me?" she asked quietly. Cosette smiled.

"Oh yes. He helped me realize how special you were to the group, and I knew you must be struggling. I wanted to help in any way I can. I know Marius struggles with guilt. He feels like he should have died with his friends, and that it was wrong for him to survive, but then we all have our demons."

"I sometimes feel that way too," Charlotte murmured. Cosette looked surprised, as if she wanted to ask a question, but out of respect remained silent.

"I was at the barricade. I don't know if you knew. I saw… I saw many men die," Charlotte continued, sensing the other girl's curiosity.

"Would it help? To talk about it?" Cosette asked upon hearing Charlotte open up a bit. The dark haired woman looked unsure. "It helps Marius. He tried to keep it all inside, because he thought it was his burden to bear. It took a lot for him to realize that other people can help even though the pain is inside of you."

Charlotte struggled for a moment before finally speaking.

"I wish there was more I could have done," she said. "Something, anything, to prevent their deaths. They were all I had. And now that they are gone, I have no one. Now that he's gone, there's only me and the-" she cut off abruptly, closed her eyes, and began again. "I can barely breathe sometimes, the pain is so great. Sometimes I search for wounds because I believe there to be lead somewhere inside of me. I have never felt so alone as I do now."

Charlotte and Cosette talked for nearly an hour. Through Cosette's unending compassion and consideration, Charlotte allowed herself to open up, to a degree, and finally talk about what had been tormenting her for three months straight. Charlotte spoke of her friends, and how she met them, and what she missed about them. She described the horror of the barricade, and seeing the bodies of her friends collect. She recalled, with considerable difficulty, witnessing the deaths of Jean Prouvaire and Bahorel. She let herself discuss the things that, while she never wanted the forget them, she believed she never wanted to talk about again. Cosette could sense, however, that the broken woman before her was still holding back, and it was still causing her pain. She was carefully avoiding it during their conversation, but Cosette had more experience than most in dealing with pain and suffering. Eventually, however, she told Charlotte that must return to her father, and rose thusly.

"You're leaving?" Charlotte asked.

"I have to leave, I'm so sorry. My father isn't well, and I must see to him. But, if you would like, I can come back tomorrow?"

"Oh, that… that would be nice, I think. I would really like that. You're the first person I have been able to talk to in quite a while. "

"I would enjoy nothing more than to spend tomorrow with you. And Charlotte?"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps tomorrow we could talk about it. "

"Talk about what?"

"I know there is something else. Something else that is causing you a great deal of pain. It may be difficult, but I think the best thing would be to talk about it."

"How did-"

"I find myself recognizing pain in a person's eyes. So until tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow…" Charlotte murmured, in a daze. She walked with Cosette to the door before finally looking back up at her.

"Cosette, thank you. Thank you for, for coming, and for talking with me, and for-" Charlotte choked up and Cosette gathered her in a hug quickly.

"You are an extraordinary person, Charlotte. I want to do as much as I can to help you. I truly believe you will be able to heal. I know Marius is," the blonde said. Charlotte nodded into her hair, and Cosette pulled away.

"I will see you tomorrow," and with that she turned and left the apartment.

Charlotte sank into a chair after the woman had left. It was amazing, how in so little time, already a great weight was lifted off of her. Never had she met anyone as kind and compassionate as Cosette. She was like a mythical creature, for surely people as pure as her couldn't exist. She had, in an hour, helped Charlotte begin to cope with her loss and grief, and helped her right the inner sense of wrong that so plagued her.

How she had managed to detect that Charlotte was hiding her pregnancy was a mystery. She obviously hadn't noticed Charlotte's distended stomach, but then, she wasn't really _that_ large yet. She rubbed her hand over her stomach.

"What do you think? Would you like to make a friend? I think she would be very nice about it, regardless of the fact that she might think me a whore. I'm sure she would like you, if I told her about you," she whispered out loud, smoothing the fabric over the small but noticeable bump. The baby offered no reply, but Charlotte looked around.

"Although, heaven knows how she liked me when she had to sit in this dump," Charlotte continued. Suddenly she looked around her, and saw, as if for the first time, how dirty her apartment was. She wrinkled her nose at the state she had allowed it to sink to. Cosette was surely disgusted.

Tying her hair up, Charlotte began to clean. She cleared the laundry away, stripped the bed, and discarded the accumulated trash. Searching beneath the bed, though, her hand thumped against something hard. Pulling it out into the light, she looked at her writing journal, covered in dust; she hadn't opened it since the fall of the barricade, and she had pushed it underneath the bed unconsciously. She idly flipped through the last few pages, reading what she had written. The final page was the beginning of a letter to Enjolras, explaining the baby. She remembered that she had planned to give it to him if she made it to the funeral, but of course then her mother had arrived, and set her off on a different course.

She threw the book away, suddenly devoid of any desire to continue cleaning. It looked better than before, but she couldn't bring herself to finish the job. She instead sat for a spell, not really thinking about anything in particular. She was eventually conscious of the fact that she had to go to work, so rose and left the apartment.

When she got back late at night, her shift complete, she collapsed on the bed and slipped into a fitful sleep, which was filled with guns and explosions and birds. Larks, she realized through her fuzzy mind. There were larks perched on all manner of objects that made up an imposing barricade. The birds weren't singing, but repeating 'Fire!' in a shrieking tone. The sound of a canon finally jolted her from the nightmare, and she blinked in the sudden exposure to blinding sunlight. The dream had taken her all the way to morning without waking her. Another canon sounded, but Charlotte finally realized that it was merely a knock on the door. Frantically she rose and practically flew to the door, anxious to speak with Cosette. The secret was all of a sudden too much to keep to herself. The pain wasn't worth it. Wrenching the door open, she looked into Cosette's startled face. The girl recovered, and smiled warmly at Charlotte.

"I brought breakfast!" she said brightly.

"I'm pregnant," Charlotte blurted out, and threw a hand over her mouth. Cosette once again looked startled and glanced down at Charlotte's stomach. Carefully ignoring the fact that the troubled woman was wearing the same dress as the day before, Cosette became suddenly aware of the quite obvious bump that most surely indicated a growing baby. Charlotte expected her to look horrified, but instead she slowly looked back up at Charlotte with a huge grin on her face.

"Oh Charlotte, that is so wonderful! A baby! You are truly blessed!" she cried, and threw her arms around Charlotte. It was her turn to be startled. The pair walked into the apartment, and Cosette praised its increased cleanliness.

"But how could I have missed the bump yesterday? Oh, I feel so foolish!" she laughed. "I do hope after the wedding Marius and I might be lucky enough to have children. How many months are you along?" Charlotte smiled.

"Four."

"Four months, how exciting. Oh Charlotte I'm so thrilled for you. But… oh but I musn't ask," Cosette blushed.

"What were you going to say? I won't mind," Charlotte insisted.

"Um, well, I was going to ask who the father is, but then I remembered that you didn't wear a ring, so I wasn't sure if you were married, but then it isn't my place, and you are so independent, and I admire your freedom and progressivism, and, oh I'm so sorry!" she rambled on, distraught, and Charlotte laughed.

"Cosette, it's alright, calm down. It, well I suppose it is a long story. When I first moved to Paris, the boys helped me out of a bad situation. I was injured, and they made sure I was all right. That was when I met him."

"Who?" Cosette whispered, and Charlotte could only smile at her curiosity.

"Monsieur Enjolras." Cosette's eyes widened. "I agreed to help him write pamphlets for Les Amis, and I found myself falling in love with him. We both fell in love, I suppose. A direct result of all the time we spent together. I remember the first time we interacted, however, I punched him in the jaw," Charlotte let out a little chuckle but looked sad once again.

"Oh, you were very much in love," Cosette murmured, and sighed. "It's there, in your eyes. He must have meant so much to you. He was truly a great man."

"He was. He cared about every thing he did. He loved his country, and he loved his friends, and he was willing to do anything for them."

"Oh Charlotte, he would have done anything for you, I am sure of it," Cosette insisted. Charlotte nodded.

"He made me leave the barricade. He wouldn't let me die. I sometimes wonder, if things had not happened the way they did, if would we have gotten married," Charlotte wondered.

"That's so romantic," Cosette sighed. "But wasn't it so good you did live, because you found out you were carrying his child. Charlotte your life is a blessing, because the life inside of you is a blessing." Cosette looked alarmed because emotion suddenly corrupted Charlotte's pretty face.

"Charlotte what's wrong?" the blonde asked. Charlotte could only shake her head.

"Cosette I did something terrible, something awful," she cried out.

"What is it?" Cosette asked, concerned.

"I… I knew about the baby. I knew I was pregnant before the barricades," she said, and suddenly tears began to fall from her eyes. For the first time in 3 months, Charlotte began to cry. "I knew, and I still went to the barricades. I was so selfish, and foolish, I could have gotten myself, and the baby, killed!" she choked out. Cosette took her hand to try and comfort her.

"But it get's worse," she cried. "I never told him. I never told Enjolras about the baby, even though I knew. He's dead! He's dead and he will never know he has a child! What kind of terrible person am I to keep that from him? And now he's gone, and this child will never know its father! I ruined two lives! I-I loved him so much, he was everything to me, and I betrayed him!" she let her head fall into her hands and sobbed. Cosette wrapped her arms around Charlotte, and the crying woman leaned onto her shoulder.

"Charlotte, shh, it's going to be all right. You have to think about what was going on for you. You had to deal with the impending deaths of not only all of your friends but the man you loved. It wasn't wrong to keep your pregnancy to yourself, and I don't think Enjorlas would have blamed you. You were trying to be strong, and brave, and that was more than anyone asked of you. You are a hero, and you survived the barricades. This baby is a gift from god, and a way for a part of Enjolras to live on. Think of that, not of what happened in the past," Cosette held Charlotte as the girl continued to cry, but she began to calm down.

"Would he hate me?" Charlotte choked out. Cosette smiled sadly at her.

"No. There is no way for Enjolras to ever hate you. He loved you, just as you said, and would have respected any decision you made." Charlotte finally nodded, and Cosette released her. She continued to cry, but in a more subdued manner.

"Now, you need to eat something. You are eating for two, now. Come on," Cosette said, and she proceeded to lie out a meal for breakfast, which the two girls shared.

"I will be forever in your debt," Charlotte said after a bit. "You have helped me deal with problems that, while not fixed, are certainly not as bad as they were two days ago. I don't know what I can say to repay you."

"You don't have to. You will always be a friend to me, and I do what I can to help my friends. You are a special person, Charlotte, and you will be a wonderful mother." The look of gratitude on Charlotte's face was indescribable, and she felt as close to happy as she had in the 3 months since the fall of the barricade.

* * *

The next day Charlotte was finishing the final touches on the apartment when a frantic knock resounded through the room. She crossed over to the door, but was not surprised to see Cosette standing on the threshold. She looked excited, her cheeks were flushed, and she was shifting from one foot to the other.

"Oh Charlotte, thank goodness you're home! You wouldn't believe what Marius told me this morning!"

"Come in, come in," Charlotte invited her in. "Breathe."

"Oh but I can't! He knew, Charlotte, he knew! Isn't that wonderful? He knew!"

"Who knew? Knew what?"

"The baby, Charlotte! Enjolras knew about the baby! He knew he was going to be a father! You never had cause to worry!" Cosette laughed happily. The blood drained from Charlotte's face.

"What? How? How do you know?" she whispered.

"I was talking to Marius – I hope you don't mind. He would never disclose any personal information, and I just think it right to be honest with him, and he knew I was troubled, so I told him about the baby. Anyway, he exclaimed that he already knew! Isn't that fantastic!"

"Cosette, please, I don't understand. How did Marius know?" Charlotte was confused, and trying not to get upset.

"On the night of the barricade, after he had sent you away, Enjolras came to Marius with a letter. He told Marius that it was absolutely necessary for this letter to make it to you! Enjolras knew that Marius had been sending _me _letters from the barricade, and thus hoped he had a way of getting this one out as well. In the letter, it explained how Enjolras knew about the baby, and that he was so happy for you, and how much he loved you! Oh Charlotte, he knew!" Cosette beamed.

"But I never got any letter. And how do you have the letter?" Charlotte asked, and Cosette looked sad.

"Marius said that he hoped a boy would carry the message for him, but he… the boy died. Did you know him?"

"Gav? Gavroche?" Cosette nodded. "Yes I knew him. He was so young…" Charlotte murmured.

"Well, Marius still had the letter on him when the barricade fell, and it remained undamaged throughout the journey through the sewers. He has had it with him the whole time, but had no idea that I knew about your pregnancy. Not wanting to spread the information needlessly, he didn't tell me. But now we both know, and now you know about the letter, and all is well!"

Charlotte could barely breathe. She had thought that she would never have another connection with Enjolras. It was like he was there, somewhere, inside that letter, pinned to the breast of one of his friends. She knew that she had to read this letter.

"Cosette, could I speak with Marius? Is he too ill?" she asked her new friend.

"I'm sure he would be delighted to speak with you, Charlotte. And Monsieur Gillenormand as well… Tea will be in only a few minutes. Do you want to go now –"

"Yes."

"Oh, ok, yes, let's head over now."

* * *

"Marius, dear? She's here."

Marius looked up, and saw his fiancé enter the room. Behind her was a trim young woman with beautiful dark hair and guarded blue eyes. He sat up weakly as the pair walked in, and Cosette rushed to his side.

"Are you feeling alright? What can I get you?" she whispered, but he only smiled at her.

"Dear, I'm fine. Thank you," he said, and looked at Charlotte. Tears began to well in her eyes as she looked at a man she assumed dead.

"Charlotte, it's so good to see you," he choked out, and Charlotte let out a broken laugh.

"You have no idea. You look so well, and so.."

"Alive?"

"Well, yes. I had no idea. I would have come, spoken to you, if I had kno-"

"Charlotte, stop," he hushed her, and Cosette reached over to grasp the other girl's hand. "You had no way of knowing. I've been close to death for months. If not for Monsieur Fauchelevaunt, and Cosette of course, I would have perished upon the barricade," Marius said.

"Monsieur Fauchelevaunt is a saint," Charlotte said, smiling.

The unimaginable happiness she felt, from seeing Marius alive and well, brought tears to her eyes. She sat down on a settee near the bed, and the tears won out, spilling down her cheeks.

"Charlotte?" Cosette murmured.

"I-I'm just so happy to see you, Marius. I'm s-so happy you are well, is all," she mumbled, trying to wipe the tears away. She rubbed her stomach, a motion that, of late, helped calm her down. She did it unconsciously, but Cosette noticed.

"Dear, do you have the letter?" she barely whispered it to Marius, yet it still drew Charlotte's attention. He glanced up at his fiancé and nodded. Charlotte rose from the settee and crossed the room.

"I'll let you two talk, and bring tea up in a bit," Cosette said, and walked out of the room after kissing Marius on the head and squeezing Charlotte's hand.

"I- Cosette told me you know about the baby," Charlotte began.

"Yes, but Charlotte I didn't mean to read the letter, or even know what it said! When Enjorlas came to me that night, after you and the other workingmen had left, I knew you must have been very special to him. When I was brought back here, to my grandfather's, the letter was read, and a certain amount of explanation was due. My grandfather thought it was _I_ who penned the letter. I know I wasn't meant to know the information it contained, so I apologize for breaching your privacy."

"Oh, Marius, it's alright. I understand."

"For the record, I think it's wonderful that you are pregnant," Marius said. Charlotte smiled her thanks, but sobered instantly.

"Marius, could I read the letter? Do you still have it?" she asked hesitantly, not entirely sure she could handle it.

He sensed her misgivings, and tried to smile reassuringly.

"Yes, it's right here." Reaching over to the vanity beside his bed, he grasped a piece of worn, folded parchment and handed it to her. "I apologize for the stains, but bullet wounds tend to bleed, unfortunately," he said dryly.

Charlotte couldn't speak. She looked down at the piece of parchment, and slowly rubbed a thumb across it. She identified the bloodstain that Marius spoke of, but it colored only a minor corner of the paper. Wordlessly she sank down onto the settee once again, and unfolded it.

_Charlotte,_

_I can only hope that as you read this you are seated comfortably in your home, and dared not risk the barricades once again. _

_First, I must apologize. I was not honest with you tonight. I told you that you could stay with me, and while I wanted nothing more that to spend my final moments with you, I broke that promise and forced you to leave. I pray that you will understand my intentions in due time. _

_I must also confess something, but on the behalf of one of our friends. Joly came to me, and told me the truth about your condition. I know that this might anger you, or come as a shock because you told Joly this in confidence, but I believe that fate has certain things in store for us all. _

_Please do not be angry with Joly. He came to me, after the initial battle, and asked about your intentions. He wanted to know if you were going to leave, or stay, and I informed him of your decision to in fact stay. He then asked about our relationship. I will admit it confused me, because we had not told anyone, but I thought perhaps he had simply observed us and made the connections himself. I could not lie, and thusly told him that I loved you and perhaps indicated toward the manner of our relationship. I did not want, however, to discredit your name or propriety, but I trust Joly. _

_It was then that he told me. He said, quite simply, 'Charlotte is pregnant.' I immediately asked for an explanation, which he provided quite thoroughly. He told me of your discovery, and of your decision to keep it to yourself. He informed me that you did not want to distract me, or make my men lose heart. He also said that you made him promise to never say anything to me. Again, you musn't be angry with Joly; he only told me in the wishes that you could survive this mess. He truly cares about you, and doesn't want you to give up an opportunity to live. _

_In terms of not telling me about the baby, I understand that your decisions are your own, and I respect them all, especially those surrounding something so personal and something that is so incredibly life altering as a child. I only wish I could have been there to support you. _

_But Charlotte, I want you to understand that you will never be a distraction to me, and you quite honestly never were. You mean so much more to me than a petty distraction. Your worth exceeds so far beyond that, that it would be an insult to you to consider it so. From the moment I met you, I knew there was something special about you, and I am only lucky that you feel the same way about me that I do toward you. I love you. I might not have realized it, but I always did. You are the only person I would ever want to spend the rest of my life with, and my biggest regret is that I didn't marry you the moment you said 'I love you' back to me. And now, I fear, that will have unfortunate, unfair repercussions. _

_So now, hopefully, you understand, at least to a degree, why I wanted you to leave. I must admit I was being selfish. Knowing that you were carrying my child made it impossible for me to allow you to stay, and so I asked you to leave. I should have told you that I knew about the baby, but per your initial wishes I didn't, but for that I am sorry._

_ I am, though, happy. It may seem impossible amidst the death and corruption in this world, but I am happy imagining a life where we could be together, and raise this child as a pair. Perhaps if we lived in some other universe that life could become reality. I want nothing more than to rise and slip off into the night to find you, but we both know that can never happen, not now. And so, I made you leave. I couldn't let you die for me. _

_I love everything about you, and I respect every decision you have ever made. I will carry images of you with me to the moment my heart stops beating._

_I love you, and I am sorry. _

_E_

Charlotte couldn't move, and could scarcely breathe. She knew Marius was likely watching her, trying to gauge her reaction, but she couldn't look up to meet his likely worried gaze. She re-read the letter over and over again, committing Enjolras' words to memory, and could almost imagine his voice saying the words out loud. It was only when she heard Cosette enter the room did Charlotte glance up. Her friend carried a tray laden with tea and food, but stopped when she saw Charlotte seated with the letter in her hand.

"Oh Charlotte, I didn't want to interrupt, or distract you or-"

"Cosette, it's fine, I-I just finished," Charlotte mumbled out, emotion twisting her face.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Charlotte looked wildly at Cosette before the tears finally fell from her eyes. It seemed she was going to release every pent up tear from 3 months in a matter of days, as Charlotte sobbed. Cosette put down the tray, crossed the room, and immediately took the weeping girl in her arms.

"He-he wasn't angry," Charlotte choked out. "He wasn't upset, or mad, or – he said he was happy. He said he loved me."

"Oh Charlotte."

"He didn't hate me!"

"He could never of hated you," Cosette assured her. "He loved you. You managed to help a man so obsessed with revolution, a man so alienated from personal relationships, find love. You gave that to him. If this world were not so cruel, the pair of you would have been able to live out your lives together, but fate has it out for young love. But you will be happy again, of that I promise." Charlotte gave Cosette a watery smile and held the letter against her chest.

Cosette managed to get everyone seated with cups of tea and biscuits with relative ease after Charlotte calmed down. The trio sat and ate in comfortable silence until Marius smiled at his cup.

"This was Courfeyrac's favorite type of tea," he said quietly.

Charlotte snorted into her own cup. "I remember Grantaire added vinegar to Courf's cup one time. He was furious, of course."

"Yes, well Grantaire never appreciated tea like Courfeyrac did."

"He said it tasted flat compared to brandy," Charlotte laughed. Marius did as well and even Cosette smiled as she delicately took a bite of a pastry. Charlotte sighed.

"Thank you, both of you. I-I finally feel… okay inside. Or almost okay. This letter means more to me than you could possibly know. You have both been so kind, and generous, and Marius I'm just so happy you are ok."

"I feel the same about you, of course," Marius said.

She nodded.

"Cosette, I cannot thank you enough for seeking me out. You are a wonderful person and a wonderful friend. I only wish we had met each other sooner, under more agreeable circumstances."

"What matters is that we are friends now!" Cosette said warmly. Charlotte put down her empty cup and rose from her seat.

"I hate to leave your company, but I fear there are certain things I need to do, things I should have done a long time ago," Charlotte announced, and Cosette rose as well.

"Of course, you must do whatever you need right now. I'll walk you down."

At the door Cosette touched Charlotte briefly on the arm.

"Charlotte, I was wondering something."

"What is it?"

"Well, I have some errands to run next week, and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind helping me with them. You see, my father and I used to do these things together, but he hasn't been spending as much time with me anymore, and I just worry, but perhaps you could…" Cosette trailed off, nervously.

"Cosette, I would be happy to help you. I would love any excuse to spend time with you, really," Charlotte answered honestly. Cosette looked relieved.

"Oh thank you. And you are sure that you are all right? Are you sure you wish to be alone?"

"Yes. I have to… do something. For myself. I should have done it a long time ago, but I was in too much pain."

"Very well. Just know that we will be thinking of you. Can I get you anything before you leave?"

"No, thank you. Wait, yes, yes there is something. I'm not even sure you would have it, though," Charlotte mused.

"What do you need?"

"Um," Charlotte mumbled, "would Marius have the address of Enjolras' parents' home?" Cosette smiled and nodded.

"If he doesn't, we will find it."

* * *

Charlotte sat down, quill in hand, and laid out three pieces of parchment, on which she wrote three letters. The first, addressed to Cosette's father, Monsieur Fauchelevaunt, thanked him immensely for all he had done. For saving Marius, because he is a dear friend, and because it gave her personal information that was most welcome. Charlotte had never met the man, but felt a deep sense of gratitude toward him that she felt necessary to vocalize.

The second letter was more difficult to write. This one was addressed to M. and Mme. Enjorlas, because Marius' grandfather had indeed found their address. In the letter, Charlotte introduced herself and explained her relationship with their son. Unaware of how much information the parents had been given about their son's death, Charlotte spoke delicately about the matter and Enjolras' involvement with the rebellion. She knew that his body had been collected, so she assumed his parents had been contacted about his death. The most important piece of information, however, was that Charlotte was with child, and that M. and Mme. Enjolras would, inevitably, be grandparents. She firmly explained that she did not want money or compensation, and by no means wished to cause scandal, but merely wanted the parents to know that a piece of their son would live on. Whether they wished to contact Charlotte further was their own choice. She attempted to sound professional in the letter, but it was difficult to keep her lingering sorrow out of the piece.

The final letter was addressed to her home in England, where, upon its arrival, it would be read by her own mother and father. Charlotte surprised herself by apologizing. She meant to apologize for not writing all these months, but it turned into something far more sentimental. Regardless of their disagreements, these people were still Charlotte's parents, and thus deserved at least an explanation. She told them about joining Les Amis and becoming involved in the rebellion, and with some personal difficulty explained her role on the barricade. She told them about each of her friends, and what their deaths meant to her. Her words painted a picture that had, for so long, been too painful to visualize.

The final portion of the letter was dedicated to herself. 'I fell in love,' she wrote, and told her parents the story of meeting, befriending, and loving Enjolras. 'He may be just a word on parchment to you, but he was my life.' She told them how her baby was growing, and how happy she was about it, regardless of what their opinions might be. She loved the child growing inside of her, more than anything now that Enjolras was gone. She didn't know how to end the letter, and finally decided on saying that, for the time being she was going to stay in Paris. But, however, should they want to visit their only daughter, she would welcome them.

Charlotte sealed all three letters, mailed them off, and that was that.

* * *

A week later Charlotte and Cosette strolled through the park, arms linked, talking about comfortable, benign subjects. They both simply enjoyed the other's company. Meandering beneath impressive colonnades, Cosette directed Charlotte's attention toward a plain stone bench that faced towards the main walkway.

"That was where I first saw Marius," Cosette laughed. "He walked by my father and I more times than I could count, just to pretend he didn't see me. He was always so handsome, but the first time we made eye contact we both knew."

"Oh, that's so romantic. I wish I had stories like that. Mine seem so crude in comparison," Charlotte laughed. Cosette nudged her.

"Care to give an example?" she said.

"Alright. Let's see. You see that fountain over there? Well, I once tricked two poor ladies into thinking I was in love with Jehan so they would spend time with him. It was shameful, really, but a good deal of fun. We all hid behind the fountain and watched my handiwork unfold." Cosette snorted with laughter.

"Did it work? Did they like him?" She giggled.

"Oh yes, my plan worked perfectly. They couldn't stay away," Charlotte laughed. She looked at the fountain once, sadly, but shook her head and the pair continued walking.

"Charlotte, want do you want to do?" Cosette asked after a spell.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know, just, is there anything you want to do in life? Any dreams or aspirations?"

"Oh. Well, um, I'm not sure. I used to want to be a writer, but that's still rather painful to think about."

"But Marius said you were such a good writer. I would hate for someone so talented to lose heart," Cosette sighed.

"That might be a bit of an exaggeration. And, to be honest, I haven't written since before the barricade. I haven't been able to write since then, and I don't really have much to write about anymore." Charlotte explained.

"You could always write about yourself," Cosette said quietly.

"What?"

"Well, you could always write about yourself. Think about it Charlotte, your life has been a whirlwind of excitement and adventure and unspeakable loss and danger! Not to mention you were directly involved in such an important armed political conflict! You were on the barricades, for heaven sakes!" Cosette said excitedly. "You… you could write a book! How amazing would that be?"

"A book?" Charlotte asked, unsure. Cosette spun around to face her friend, taking both her hands in her own.

"Yes, a book! A book that describes the hardships of life in Paris, and the effect of political corruption on civilian life, and the perseverance of romance throughout it all. Oh I want to read it already!"

"A book…" Charlotte deadpanned, conflicted.

"Oh Charlotte, you have to imagine it! It would be wonderful, and what better person to write it than you?"

"I-I don't know."

"At least consider writing _something_ again?" Cosette pleaded.

"I did use to write for a newspaper. Perhaps they would have me back once again…" Charlotte trailed off.

"Yes!" Cosette exclaimed. "That would be an excellent start!" She smirked at Charlotte's thoughtful expression. "You're thinking about the book, aren't you?" Charlotte looked at her friend.

"No. Maybe." She paused. "But how would I even pay for something like that. I haven't the money to start a project of that scale." Cosette smiled widely and started walking again; Charlotte hurried to keep up.

"I would be your investor, of course," Cosette said, as if it were obvious.

"You? Be an investor?" Charlotte asked, incredulous. Cosette looked back, pretending to be offended.

"Yes, me. I have quite a large inheritance, I'll have you know."

"But how could I ever pay you back?" Charlotte wanted to know.

"Oh, I don't know. You could give me a share of the profits, or distribution rights, or what not. My fiancé _is _a lawyer after all, I'm sure he could be of assistance."

"I just don't know…" Cosette stopped walking once more and looked directly at Charlotte.

"Charlotte, this could mean more than just a job. This book could be an opportunity for you to immortalize the most important people in your life. This could be an ever-living testament to their memory." Charlotte's expression changed.

"You-you're right. I wouldn't be doing it just for me. It would be for them, for all of them," Charlotte said, tearing up.

"You see, it is a good idea, and you know it," Cosette beamed. "Charlotte, look at you. You are absolutely beautiful." For she was. "You just smiled!" For she did. "And you have a healthy, lovely child growing inside of you." That much was certain. "You can do what ever you want in this world, and I for one believe that you are going to be just fine," Cosette said. Charlotte looked at her friend.

"Yes, I do believe I will be."

* * *

**A/N: So, the last 'real' chapter. the last one is like an epilogue or something... but, this is pretty much the end of our story with Charlotte. I really hope you guys liked this story, because it was a fuck ton of fun to write. Thanks for sticking with it, if you have. love you guys!**

**-C**


	20. Epilogue

**I do not own Les Miserables**

* * *

The weather was dark after the storm. The ocean, churning and upset by the wind and rain, rocked the large boat, but already the sea was calming. Driven below deck for nearly 3 days, the little boy was finally able to clamber on top of rigging and crates to peer into the water. His mother, equally happy to be out in the fresh air, watched carefully from her seat near the mast of the schooner. A sailor passed by.

"Alright, Miss Gray?" he asked. Charlotte looked up from her watch and smiled at the young man.

"Oh yes," she answered, looking wistfully out toward the lightening sky. "I have always enjoyed storms, you know." Her accent, though English, held distinct traces of the French she had most surely been speaking. The sailor laughed.

"I figure that ya' never wanted ter be a sailor then, m'lady," he laughed and walked off. She scowled at him and directed her attention back to the young boy, who was laughing as spray from the sea hit him lightly in the face.

The sailors moved around her, going about business on the ship, although some couldn't help but cast glances towards the young woman. She couldn't have been more than 25, and the beauty of her youth presented itself. Her cheeks, with their high bones, were flushed with color, and the wind tossed about her dark hair, despite her attempts to keep it in check. Her blue eyes were alive against the constant blue background of the ocean. She had a fiery wit but laughed easily, and while all of the men onboard enjoyed her company, they knew better than to try any romantic advances. Even now she sat poised and collected, but constantly vigilant lest the boy get himself into trouble.

The boy was a delight to all. He charmed even the most grizzled sailor, and each, in turn, took to playing with him and teasing him. He loved being tossed into the air, squealing when he was caught, or shown parts of the ship. His mother was always present, subtly watching from the background, but she rarely intervened. She privately loved seeing the boy so happy. He didn't always have a chance to play with someone who could toss him about so, namely a father. The sailors didn't ask many questions regarding the boy. Many of them had questionable backgrounds themselves, and were thusly in no position to judge. They could see, however, how much the woman loved her son. Unconditionally, it would seem.

Presently one sailor snuck up behind the boy, who was leaning over the railing of the ship, and jolted him from behind.

"Best not to fall in, boy!" the sailor yelled. The boy shrieked when his feet left the ground for a second or two, and the sailor laughed. When released, the boy scampered to his mother, who was laughing as well.

"Mama, did you see him? He almost made me fall!" he said nervously.

"Oh, my sweet! Come here, I'll keep you safe!" she said, and opened her arms. The boy ran to her, and climbed into her lap. "You poor thing." She stroked his blonde curls and he burrowed into her shoulder. He frowned when he saw her smile.

"You're right. He was very mean for doing that. But perhaps you should not stand so near the rail, and you'll be in less danger of falling," she said gently.

She looked down at him as he rested his head against her shoulder. He looked remarkably like his father, startlingly so. His hair was a very fair blonde, and it curled around his ears. His eyes were a bright blue, perhaps closer to the hue of his mother's than his father's, but the intensity definitely belonged to the latter. He was curious and smart and adventurous and was usually getting into trouble but perfect nonetheless. Charlotte was as enraptured with him now as she had been the day he was born nearly 5 years ago. He was quiet for a moment before looking expectantly at his mother again.

"Mama, how much longer are we going to be on this boat?" he asked her. He spoke to her in French, but she reprimanded him.

"Practice your English, dear. And I don't know how much longer. Not too long, I imagine. I hope we will be there soon…" she murmured, and hugged him a little closer.

"Where are we going again? Will I like it? Is it going to be fun?" he showered her with questions.

"We are going to England, dear, don't you remember? It is where I was born!"

"I was born in France. I miss France. It's not so wet in France."

"We will be going back to France soon, I promise. We just have to spend some time in England because your grandfather is sick."

"My grandfather? But we left Grandfather in France! With Grandmother!"

"Yes, but we are going to see _my_ mother and father. Do you remember when Tutor Louis taught you that you have two sets of grandparents?" The boy wrinkled his nose.

"Yes. I wish I didn't have to spend so much time with Tutor Louis. Emmeline doesn't spend time with Tutor Louis," the boy grumbled.

"Emmeline spends time with her own tutor, dear. And she is younger than you," Charlotte said, amused.

Emmeline was the sole daughter of Marius and Cosette, born a year after her own boy. Charlotte's small house, which she had bought for herself and the boy, was down the road from the home of the Pontmercy's, and the two children played often together. After the publication of her book, Charlotte could afford her own home and could go so far as to hire one or two servants and a tutor for the boy, who he despised.

"Grandfather said if I don't like school, then I should be a farmer! I want to be a farmer, then, because I don't like school, and I especially don't like Tutor Louis," the boy chattered on. Charlotte frowned.

"You don't have to listen to everything that Grandfather says. Sometimes he is funning with you," she said pointedly.

Enjolras' parents had been the most surprising things of Charlotte's new life. Before the boy had even been born they had sent a letter to her. They expressed their incalculable grief, guilt, and shame at breaking connection with their son. Enjolras' mother, Adéle, was absolutely broken over her only son's death, and Enjolras' father, Frédéric, who had once been so stubborn and hard headed about his son, finally understood that family was more important than politics or professions; the couple wanted nothing more than to help support Charlotte as she coped with the coming of a baby. They invited Charlotte to their home on the pretense of a short visit, but they insisted that she spend a longer time with them.

In the end, they convinced Charlotte to have her son there, as opposed to returning to Paris, and Monsieur Gillenormand's home, to give birth. Cosette and Marius supported this idea, and it gave Charlotte a chance to not only expose her son to his doting grandparents, but also spend time writing her book. After a year or two, it was published and became considerably successful, and Charlotte was able to move back to Paris. Her and her son returned to the south to visit multiple times a year, however, and they all kept close.

"Is my other grandfather nice? Is he like you? Are all parents like their children, because if they are I think I would rather like my father. He would have been nice and would have given me sweets." Charlotte's expression tightened.

"Children are not always like their parents, dear. Your father was quite different from his father, but he was great in his own ways," she answered.

"I wish I could know him," the boy said thoughtfully. "I would show him that I have learned my letters, and can speak in English, which not even Emmeline can do!" the boy said, excited. Charlotte couldn't help but smile at him.

"He would have been so proud of you," she said, and kissed the boy on the head. He squirmed away and jumped to the deck once more. Stand before her, he set his arms akimbo.

"What is my other grandfather like?" he wanted to know. Charlotte was caught off guard.

"I – he – umm," she stammered. "I – I haven't actually seen him in a long time. Your grandmother, either." The boy looked curious.

"Why not?" he asked. Charlotte growled a little and stood up to catch him around the middle. He giggled and squealed, trying to escape.

"Because I've been with you, silly child!" she laughed into his ear, but then released him.

"But that's alright! We'll be seeing them soon, right? Because my other grandfather is sick?"

It was barely two weeks ago that Charlotte had gotten the letter from her mother explaining the fact that her father had fallen quite ill. In his sickness he expressed his remorse at the way he treated his only daughter, and wanted to apologize and make up for the injustices done to her. Charlotte was ready, she realized, to forgive her family and wished she had made the decision sooner, because now it might be too late to make up for lost time. Her mother, though once unwilling to accept that Charlotte was pregnant, claimed that she wanted nothing more that to meet her grandson, if Charlotte permitted it of course. And so, Charlotte and the boy set out on the next ship to England, to which they now sailed.

"Yes, he's sick, so we need to be there to help him get better. It will only be for a while," Charlotte explained to her son.

"And then I can tell Emmeline all about the boat? And about England?" the boy asked.

"Of course! But come here, dear, your hair is all out of place," Charlotte said, gathering her son close, and running her fingers through his hair.

"Mama, do you miss father?" he asked un-expectantly. Charlotte stopped. She turned the boy around.

"Of course I miss him. I loved him very much. He meant a great deal to me. But I know, that if he hadn't died, he would have loved _you_ very much as well," Charlotte said. The boy threw his arms around his mother's neck.

"_I_ love you, Mama," he whispered. Charlotte smiled at her son and hugged him back.

"I love you too, Apollo."

* * *

**A/N: the final author's note... weird. this was my first fic, like, ever, and i am really glad i wrote it. i hope everyone enjoyed it, and they liked the ending. **

**all my love,**

**claire**


End file.
